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Book: Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy by Laura Vosika
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Authors: Laura Vosika
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on the rock, her shoulder brushing his. "If you were nothing more, you'd be back in your room with Caroline. That's a 'nice day' for the person you show to the world." She twisted the end of his red tartan around her hand, watching him.
Shawn breathed deeply, saying nothing. Sunlight skipped along the loch's waters, making him blink. A wind blew fresh and strong, this high. And the drunken romp on the pile of bills didn't seem as fun, here in the light of day with Amy. It felt tawdry. He stared at the ground, muttering, "I was never with Caroline."
"Yeah, I know, she was with Rob. I'm just trying to understand you," Amy said. "I'm sorry." Dropping the plaid, she worked her fingers into his, and they sat, with her head on his shoulder.
The silence stretched again, till Shawn broke it. "Let's go down to the castle. Today's the last day for that living history group. I'll find a way to get in after they close."
* * *
They toured the castle in silence, holding hands. The southern half lay in ruins. Stopped only once for an autograph, they soon moved on to the restored half, swarming with actors in medieval dress. The men wore wide-sleeved shirts and tunics much like Shawn's own, though the tartans over their shoulders were blue. They went about the daily activities of medieval Scotland, cooking, carding wool, and sharpening weapons, for the benefit of tourists.
One of the men paused in the midst of cleaning a horse's hoof, staring at Amy. She glanced away. When she looked back, the woman next to him was staring at her, too. They turned quickly under her gaze, whispering to one another.
"Shawn." Amy gripped his hand a little more tightly. "Some of these actors are looking at me strangely."
He glanced around the courtyard, at the buzz of medieval life humming around them. "You're imagining it," he said, and returned to scanning the walls for a way back in; listening with half an ear as the short, elderly tour guide, swishing her voluminous dress across the grassy courtyard, described the castle and its history, battles and lords, and the days of the Jacobites and Covenanters.
"But he was looking right at me," Amy whispered, conscious of the other tourists. "They both were, and whispering."
The guide led them into the eastern wing, up a narrow, uneven flight of stone stairs, talking all the way about Robert the Bruce, switching his loyalty from the Scots to England and back again.
"They were probably looking at me," Shawn said. "They must recognize me from the posters."
"You're arrogant," Amy muttered, and dropped the subject.
He grinned at her. "Thank you."
"In the 1300's, these were the chambers of Niall Campbell," the tour guide said, ushering the group into a suite of rooms high on the third floor. Tall arched windows on the outer wall spilled in sunshine. Shawn wandered, as she spoke, running his hands along rough stone walls, barely glancing at the four poster bed and the tapestry of a man on horseback.
"Look, Shawn." Amy indicated the tapestry. "That could be you." He glanced at it, and moved on. A short, narrow staircase, carved in the very rock itself, twisted back into a recess, with another window looking down to the loch. Shawn stuck his head out, and pulled it back in quickly. The wall dropped thirty or forty feet, a sharp vertical descent to a small patch of ground at its base. Choppy waters pounded the stones hemming in the little patch of earth. They would not be climbing this wall.
"The laird, Malcolm MacDonald, sent Niall to raise armies to fight Edward Plantagenet at the Battle of the Pools. There, Niall Campbell walks out of history, and we dinna hear of him again. It is believed a traitor in the castle killed him before he could reach his goal. Or he may have died at the battle."
Shawn emerged from the recess, back into the room, where the group hung on the guide's every word. He sidled up to Amy, taking her hand. "Lots of death and destruction for a miserable pile of stones," he said. "They
Shawn breathed deeply, saying nothing. Sunlight skipped along the loch's waters, making him blink. A wind blew fresh and strong, this high. And the drunken romp on the pile of bills didn't seem as fun, here in the light of day with Amy. It felt tawdry. He stared at the ground, muttering, "I was never with Caroline."
"Yeah, I know, she was with Rob. I'm just trying to understand you," Amy said. "I'm sorry." Dropping the plaid, she worked her fingers into his, and they sat, with her head on his shoulder.
The silence stretched again, till Shawn broke it. "Let's go down to the castle. Today's the last day for that living history group. I'll find a way to get in after they close."
* * *
They toured the castle in silence, holding hands. The southern half lay in ruins. Stopped only once for an autograph, they soon moved on to the restored half, swarming with actors in medieval dress. The men wore wide-sleeved shirts and tunics much like Shawn's own, though the tartans over their shoulders were blue. They went about the daily activities of medieval Scotland, cooking, carding wool, and sharpening weapons, for the benefit of tourists.
One of the men paused in the midst of cleaning a horse's hoof, staring at Amy. She glanced away. When she looked back, the woman next to him was staring at her, too. They turned quickly under her gaze, whispering to one another.
"Shawn." Amy gripped his hand a little more tightly. "Some of these actors are looking at me strangely."
He glanced around the courtyard, at the buzz of medieval life humming around them. "You're imagining it," he said, and returned to scanning the walls for a way back in; listening with half an ear as the short, elderly tour guide, swishing her voluminous dress across the grassy courtyard, described the castle and its history, battles and lords, and the days of the Jacobites and Covenanters.
"But he was looking right at me," Amy whispered, conscious of the other tourists. "They both were, and whispering."
The guide led them into the eastern wing, up a narrow, uneven flight of stone stairs, talking all the way about Robert the Bruce, switching his loyalty from the Scots to England and back again.
"They were probably looking at me," Shawn said. "They must recognize me from the posters."
"You're arrogant," Amy muttered, and dropped the subject.
He grinned at her. "Thank you."
"In the 1300's, these were the chambers of Niall Campbell," the tour guide said, ushering the group into a suite of rooms high on the third floor. Tall arched windows on the outer wall spilled in sunshine. Shawn wandered, as she spoke, running his hands along rough stone walls, barely glancing at the four poster bed and the tapestry of a man on horseback.
"Look, Shawn." Amy indicated the tapestry. "That could be you." He glanced at it, and moved on. A short, narrow staircase, carved in the very rock itself, twisted back into a recess, with another window looking down to the loch. Shawn stuck his head out, and pulled it back in quickly. The wall dropped thirty or forty feet, a sharp vertical descent to a small patch of ground at its base. Choppy waters pounded the stones hemming in the little patch of earth. They would not be climbing this wall.
"The laird, Malcolm MacDonald, sent Niall to raise armies to fight Edward Plantagenet at the Battle of the Pools. There, Niall Campbell walks out of history, and we dinna hear of him again. It is believed a traitor in the castle killed him before he could reach his goal. Or he may have died at the battle."
Shawn emerged from the recess, back into the room, where the group hung on the guide's every word. He sidled up to Amy, taking her hand. "Lots of death and destruction for a miserable pile of stones," he said. "They
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