Chapter 26

Phillip woke to a blinding headache. He blinked several times, realizing only after the fact that perhaps he shouldn’t have given any indication that he was awake. ’Twas too late for subterfuge. All he could do was hope he wouldn’t soon be feeling a blade going into his heart.

Time passed and still he breathed. It took more time yet, but his head finally cleared enough for him to be able to open his eyes fully and make sense of what he was seeing.

He was in the great hall at Haemesburgh, but things didn’t look as they should have. Who had put bloody windows in the keep? There were no windows there in the great hall that he remembered, something he had wished from the beginning that he could have changed. It wasn’t as if Artane had all that many either, but the hall was so enormous that it hadn’t seemed to matter. Here, the keep was so much smaller and so dank and close—

Only it wasn’t. He sniffed. Perhaps even more startling than the lack of foul smell was the lack of any smell at all. Well, save some sort of flowery bit of business that he supposed any woman of his acquaintance would have been pleased to wear. Imogen had carried such a pleasant perfume about her—

He sat up. Was Imogen there?

Nay, not Imogen. Someone who looked truly like no one he recognized, but might have been related to Robert of Haemesburgh if the light had been shining on her in just the most unfortunate of ways.

He felt his mouth fall open. “Heather?”

The woman, who he had to admit was damned beautiful, lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow slightly. “How clever you are, my lord Phillip. My father underestimated your intelligence.”

Phillip used the edge of the lord’s table to pull himself up until he was sitting and then remained there until his head stopped spinning. He drew his hand over his eyes, then looked at the woman sitting so comfortably in a chair facing him.

Well, she was most certainly not dressed in medieval gear, which led him to believe that perhaps he wasn’t where he thought he should have been. He hardly dared believe that he might have reached the Future, but perhaps there was no other conclusion to draw. He looked at Heather carefully.

“I have questions.” He had to chew on his next words for a bit before he thought he could spew them out. “I’m not sure if I want answers to them.”

“Come now, my lord Phillip,” she said with a more mocking tone than he thought she should have been using, “Fear? Surely not.”

“I never said I was afraid,” he said. He hadn’t said he wasn’t either, but that was perhaps beside the point. “I’m steeling myself for the answers, nothing more.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you see if you can get yourself into the lord’s chair and I’ll find some refreshments for you. Then we’ll come to an understanding.”

Phillip felt as if he were approximately ten summers, looking up at someone besides his mother, who never would have intimidated the hell out of him as Heather was now. “Where am I?”

“Modern-day Scotland. I would give you the date, but you might swoon.”

He took a deep breath. “The Future?”

Heather’s smile was utterly devoid of humor. “You could call it that, I suppose.”

“Is Imogen here?”

“We’ll discuss that in a moment. Up in your chair, there’s a good lad.”

Phillip found it in him to glare at her, but she only laughed—a seemingly genuine sound that time—and walked away, her shoes making a sound against the stone of the floor that was oddly reminiscent of a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil. Perhaps things were not so strange in the Future after all.

Or perhaps they were.

He looked around the great hall and wasn’t sure if he was surprised by the changes or not. The place was definitely cleaner, he would give Heather that much. The floors were missing any sort of covering, yet they seemed not to suffer from the lack. The walls were scrubbed and covered here and there with well-made tapestries, things he certainly didn’t remember having seen in another time.

He also didn’t remember a gallery running around the upper edge of the hall, a gallery such as his uncle Nicholas had built for his lady wife, but he had to admit it was a decent change to the place. It looked rather less like a tomb.

It was the smell that he couldn’t get past—or, rather, the lack of smell. He wasn’t sure if that were a good thing or not, but it was definitely something different. It made him wonder what Imogen had thought of his time. Perhaps he didn’t want to know.

He watched Heather walk back across the hall, her shoes making the same unsettling noises as at first. She was trailed by servants bearing a pair of trays. He tried not to gasp as a meal fit for royalty was laid out on the lord’s table in front of him. The cloth alone that was placed down first was of such fine work, he was quite certain it had cost a fortune. He wasn’t sure he could even begin to identify what serving pieces were being used, never mind trying to determine what foodstuffs were being presented.

He looked at Heather to find her watching him with less calculation than pity. She put her finger under her chin and lifted her face slightly, which he took to mean he should shut his own gaping mouth. He did so, hoping he hadn’t made a complete arse of himself in front of her maids.

The serving gels were dismissed and Heather took her seat again. She waved him on to the meal before him.

“Help yourself.”

“I hardly know where to start.”

“I would mock you for it—and likely should—but I understand,” she said simply. “Try a bit of everything. None of it’s poisoned, if that worries you.”

He had to admit, half an hour later, that he wasn’t sure he agreed with her assessment of a few of the items he’d tasted, but on the whole it had been delicious and without a doubt the most rock-and-bug-free meal he had ever eaten. He had a sip of something extremely tasty in a cup that was so light and delicate, it had to have been made of faery wings, then set that cup down and looked at Heather.

“Where is my sword?”

“What sword?”

He shot her what he hoped was a look stern enough to make her rethink any plans she had to toy with him. “The one with the bloody large stone in the crossbar.”

“Oh, that one,” she said negligently. “Haven’t seen it.”

“Lying is still a sin, even in the Future.”

She regarded him coolly. “And why would I give you my only means of getting from time to time?”

“Because ’tis my sword,” he said pointedly. “And since you seem to be so comfortable here, I don’t see where you need it any longer.”

She seemed to consider the wisdom of that—or so he thought.

“Let’s make a bargain, you and I,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll keep your sword, and you thank me for sending you such a lovely smelling wench before you go back to where you came from.”

Well, he had to admit she had done a goodly work there. He considered for a moment or two just how sweet-smelling Imogen was, then realized what else Heather had just said. He looked at her in surprise.

“You sent Imogen?”

“You didn’t think she arrived there by accident, did you?”

“Honestly, I had no idea what to think,” he said. “How did you find her, or choose her, or send her—?”

“So many questions for a lad who is only here for his sword.”

“Well, I might be here for other things as well,” he admitted. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be entirely truthful. I simply wanted to keep Imogen safe.”

“Such a noble lord you are, Phillip.”

“I am trying,” he said honestly, “but it is made more difficult by my lack of sword.”

She looked around herself in confusion, then back at him. “I don’t see your sword here, do you?”

“I could search the keep for it,” he said.

“I suppose you might try,” she agreed, “and I suppose you might find yourself in gaol come nightfall as a result. And think on that, my lord. You, a medieval sort of lad, trying to explain yourself to modern guards who might find your tale so interesting that they would want to keep you in their clutches for quite some time lest they miss out on any important details.” She shivered delicately. “Medieval torture devices might have been brutal, but I daresay modern ones are more effective.”

“Medieval,” he repeated. “Aye, that is what they call our time, isn’t it?”

“Or the Middle Ages, if you rather. And aye, that is what they call your time.”

“I could tell them of your origins as well,” he said.

She laughed a little, but it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “Do you honestly think I am so stupid not to have thought of that possibility before now? Nay, my lord Phillip, you will not have the upper hand here. This is my world, not yours. I have safeguards in place, of course.”

He had to admit he wasn’t surprised. The woman was canny, to be sure. He sighed deeply. “Very well, what do you want?”

“I want a hearty expression of thanks for sending you such a delightful wench,” Heather said, “a bit of sport at your expense, and my freedom.”

“I appreciate the temporary gift of a lovely gel,” he said evenly, “I believe you already have your freedom, and I’m not at all interested in providing you with any sport.”

“And if I promised you your sword at the end of it?”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you have no alternative?”

He pursed his lips. “Very well, what idiocy do you want me to demonstrate for you until you’re satisfied?”

“I want you to woo and win Imogen Maxwell.”

His mouth had fallen open. He knew it and heartily wished he could have avoided it. It took a moment before he felt a little less like the floor was shifting beneath him, but he was made of stern stuff indeed. He retrieved his jaw and tried not to splutter.

“She couldn’t possibly want to live in my time.”

“How do you know?”

He gestured inelegantly at the food on the table. “If this is simply a foretaste of marvels to come, how can I possibly convince her to leave it all behind?”

“Are you not inducement enough?”

He flushed in spite of himself. “I never claimed to be anything like it.”

She nodded. “In that, you speak the truth I suppose. Your family name speaks very loudly for itself, but you do have a reputation as a fairly humble sort.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I think.”

“Use your vast charms to win yourself a wife,” she suggested. “You have a fortnight. Win Imogen’s heart and you’ll have your sword.”

“Just like that?” he managed. “Just march off into the Future, tell a Future gel she would prefer to live in the past, then come and collect my blade?”

“I don’t care how you do it,” she said, “just that you do it.”

He didn’t like to feel at such a loss, but this was a situation far beyond the normal events of his life, he hardly knew how to comport himself. He was tempted to ask Heather why she had set him to such a task, but there was something in her eye that he thought might be best left undisturbed. He took a deep breath and set that question aside for another time. “And if I don’t manage it?” he asked.

“I’ll shove you through the gate in the floor and leave you in misery for the rest of your days. If you manage it, I’ll give you back your sword.”

“I could use it to come here and vex you.”

“Do you think I would leave that to chance, either?”

“And how do you think you’ll stop it?”

“We’ll discuss that later.”

He loathed being forced to admit defeat. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about defeat including the rather tempting possibility of taking a fortnight to woo Imogen in her own time. The one thing he knew for certain was that Heather of Haemesburgh was a woman he was very happy he had never wed. He suspected she felt the same way about him.

“Very well,” he said, looking at her with a frown. “I win Imogen, you give me my sword, and then what?”

“You go back to the past and I stay here and live out my life in bliss.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Checkmate, is it, then?”

“It would appear so.”

He reached for his cup of whatever it was—tea, he thought Heather had termed it—downed a liberal amount of it in spite of his shaking hand, then looked at her. “Where is your father?”

“I imagine he’s long dead by now.”

“I mean in 1254.”

“He was dead then, too.”

“And your brother?”

“I’ve no idea. Off making mischief and siring scores of bastards, no doubt. Or plotting your demise.” She shrugged. “He’s unpredictable.”

He suppressed the urge to curse. “And the state of your keep? Do you have any idea of the condition of it, who is manning the walls, who is styling himself lord of the hall?”

“I don’t know and I couldn’t possibly care less,” she said dismissively. “Five years have passed, my lord, five years that have been alternately terrifying and blissful but mostly full of not being forced to inhabit this hellhole in all its medieval glory, which has been the best thing of all. I don’t know what happened to my brother, to my father’s men, to my father’s hall. I just know what I have now and that is something I will not relinquish.”

He held up his hand. “Wait. Five years?”

She considered. “You have it aright. A bit longer than that. Almost six years of bliss.”

He considered her. “And you don’t live here?”

“Good heavens, nay. I have a flat in Edinburgh. I wouldn’t live here if you paid me a million quid.”

He had no idea what a quid was, much less a million of them, but the way she said it left him with no doubt of how little she cared for the stones around them. “How did you know to put my sword in the floor?”

She smiled. “A witch told me.”

He knew he was gaping at her, but he couldn’t help himself. “A witch?”

“Witch, midwife, herbalist.” She shrugged. “All the same back in the past, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Did she give you her name?”

“If she did, do you actually think I’ll give it to you? So you can travel back through time to an earlier time and put her to the sword before she could help me?”

But then I wouldn’t have Imogenwas the first thing that crossed his mind, and the thought shocked him so badly, he flinched. He couldn’t decide if he were more surprised by the sudden pain of the thought of never having had her or that such a thing had snuck up on him so unexpectedly and unmarked to have him in such a state. He looked at Heather.

“I wouldn’t.”

She studied him for so long in silence he supposed he would have become uneasy if he hadn’t been so accustomed to the same from his father. Robin of Artane was, as anyone would volunteer without prompting, a bit of a bastard from time to time.

Phillip loved him for it.

“I’ll think about giving it to you, then. I don’t think you’ll be surprised. She travels a great deal, you see, and has compassion on gels who are desperate for a different life.”

Phillip could only bring Berengaria of Artane to mind as one who would possibly have aided Heather, but he supposed in the end it didn’t matter. He had a task to accomplish and ’twas best he make haste being about it. “You’ve been extraordinarily helpful.”

“You’re welcome. And you’re welcome for sending you off to ply your chivalry on a lovely woman.”

“I do appreciate that.” He studied her for a moment or two. “Are you going to tell me how you chose her?”

“Who says I chose her?” Heather asked with a shrug. “Perhaps she was simply in the right place at the right time.”

“Any ideas where I might begin my search?” he asked politely. “Or do you simply have her held captive here in the keep?”

“Oh nay, your cousin Rose sent her through a gate in Edinburgh.”

He felt his mouth fall open. “How do you know that?”

“I have a phone and a selection of spies. How else?”

“And I’m to find her there?”

“I’ll get you that far, at least. The rest is up to you.”

···

And that, he discovered, was the absolute truth. She put him in a car—a heart-stopping conveyance if ever there were one—and ferried him north to a city that at least retained a fair bit of its medieval charm, though he had to admit it looked a bit more weathered than when he’d last seen it. The castle had definitely increased in size and scope.

Heather slowed her beast down, then stopped where she seemed to be greeted by friends who made very loud and, it had to be said, irritated noises with their own cars. She pointed at the crowd of souls milling about.

“Off you go, laddie.”

He blinked. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do?”

She handed him a phone. He knew what it was and felt just the slightest bit proud of himself over that.

“Call me if you need me,” Heather said, leaning over to open his door for him. “Your hotel is up the way. I’ve booked you a room for the fortnight. You’ll find what you need there. If you can’t woo Imogen in that amount of time, you don’t deserve my keep.”

“My what is up the way?”

“Your inn, you fool. The Jester’s Court, I believe ’tis called. Fool’s Errand might be more apt, but I won’t judge.”

Phillip would have commented on that, but she’d given him such a shove that he had no choice but to continue on out the door. He’d barely hit the cobblestones before her car was pulling away. He sat up, pulled himself out of the street, then looked about him. That not a soul paid him any heed past stepping around him told him perhaps all he needed to know about modern Edinburgh.

He crawled to his feet and tried to get his bearings. He was surprised by the merchants who had invaded the lower portions of the surrounding buildings, but perhaps that was how they did things. He was even more surprised by their painfully bright torchlight, but that was also something to investigate later.

“Och, and where have you been?”

Phillip turned around to see a grizzled, elderly man standing behind him, scowling at him. “I’m sorry—”

“Aye, no doubt, and bugger if you’re not blootered! Go have some coffee and sober yerself up. You have a tour in two hours.”

“Blootered,” Phillip repeated in disbelief. “A tour?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Ghost walks are what they are and you should be damned grateful you’ve got the work. Here, I’ll buy you a coffee, then that’s positively the last thing I do for you.”

Phillip considered. That sounded like a foodstuff and he had to admit the repast at Heather’s table had been elegant but not very filling. Perhaps he might find heartier fare at that man’s board, then feel a bit more himself as he tried to assault the Future.

He curled his fingers into fists. It hid their shaking better that way, he thought. Poor Imogen. No wonder she had looked so horrified.

“I say,” he managed, trailing after the man, “I wonder if you might direct me to my... hotel.” The word felt strange on his tongue. Indeed, the whole bloody Future accent felt strange on his tongue but it was amazing how his early, secret experiments with the same at his uncle Montgomery’s keep were serving him now.

Experiments he’d made the decision to forget for so many years.

“After the show,” the man said impatiently. “What, you’re trying to leave me stranded?”

“Nay, of course not,” Phillip said.

“Then follow me, drink up, then I’ll tell you what you’ll be doing. And ye’d best do it well, else I’ll sack you.”

Phillip supposed having a job was one way to accustom himself to the strangeness of the Future. He didn’t have the heart to tell the man that he’d latched on to the wrong servant, so he tucked his phone into the purse hanging from his belt, then followed after his new liege. As he walked, it occurred to him what had been bothering him all day.

How had Heather known he was coming?