CHAPTER ONE 

Mid 16th Century - Scotland

     Robert Armstrong dug his spurs deep into the sides of his chestnut pony.  Twilight was fast approaching and the evening mist lay heavy upon his auburn hair as he reached the crest of the moss covered fell.  It had been a hard ride, but victory was at last to be his, for there before him, floundering in the heather, was the mysterious stranger who had been shadowing his every move for nearly a fortnight.

     The sandy haired Englishman was painfully aware of Robert's presence and scrambled hastily from under his fallen steed.  As he slid down the steep slope, he searched in vain for something to grab onto, but instead lost his footing and tumbled head first into the thick marsh grass.  He came up gasping for air, certain he was about to lose his head, but the Scot was nowhere to be found.  

     Edward’s eyes darted back and forth across the windswept moor, his breath quickening as he wiped the mud from his face, for he had come to know the rugged young man who had only moments before chased him down the grassy brae, and he felt sure Robert had not given up that easily.  He was out there somewhere to be sure, hidden amidst the rising mist that crept across the mire, just watching quietly; waiting to make his move.  Edward could feel his heart pounding against his leather jack as he searched the darkening horizon, but not even a whaup flew from its nest;  then, without warning, a piece of heather tickled his ear, and he spun around defensively, plunging himself backwards into the cold water.  How sweet the purple blossom smelled, but the moss mud that clung to his clothes was not so sweet.  

     "Damn!" he uttered in frustration as he pulled himself back up on solid ground.  “I almost had him.  Stinking bogs!"

     With that, the disheveled Englishman brushed himself off and walked to a lee just west of where he had fallen. There, behind the stump of an old tree, he uncovered a large canvas bag, dusty and worn, as if it had seen far better days.  From it he pulled a large chunk of salted beef, and slumping down against a weathered birch, he began to chew off a small piece. 

     "Have to eat," he mumbled with a weary sigh, the lids of his eyes too heavy to concern himself any longer with the whereabouts of his illusive Scot. 

     It was getting late and the winter air was already beginning to send its sting through the damp leather of his quilted jack.  Instinctively, he pulled his plaid close around his neck and was just beginning to build a fire when a sharp blade slid delicately across his throat.

     "What clan be ye fra, man," the Scot whispered with a coldness that rivaled the bog winds. 

     A handsome boy, not extremely large, but broad with a strong arm and riveting gaze, Robert knew his weapon well and placed it firmly beneath the pale blue handkerchief that covered Edward's neck. 

    "Speak now, afore ye canna speak at all,” he hissed.

     Edward did not dare move.  He hardly dared breath for fear of causing the sharpened blade to cut even further into his bare flesh.  "The Fosters . . . o Bewcastle," he stuttered. 

     "Liar!" the Scot growled. "I aught cut yer throat right here an now.  Do ye think me a fool?"

     "No!  Of course not . . .” Edward stammered, knowing that at any moment his head might very well be joining his boots, ”after all, you are partly right, I suppose . . ."   The sweat was beginning to form on his brow as the cold edge pressed ever firmer against his chin, and he spoke quickly, without even taking another breath.  "I'm not from Bewcastle, ‘tis true, but I am a Foster."

     "Ye'r an outlander an noucht more.  Perhaps Auld Graham wud like ta know who's been claimin his name."

     "No, wait!  I told you; you are right.  I am an outlander, from Lancaster to be exact.  I don't know how the family got down there.  They just did."

     "Maybe ye'r a spy for the King then,” Robert declared.

     "Don't be ridiculous!” Edward exclaimed. “I don't even know the King.  Besides, regardless of where I'm from, I am still a Foster."

     "Then why hae ye been followin me these last few days, Foster o Lancaster?  Speak true or die this night."

     "I swore an oath to a lady,”  the Englishman stammered, “ . . . a beautiful one, and I mean to keep it."

     "An what has that oath ta do wi me?"

     "'Tis about a box," Edward began, " . . . a jeweled box.  Can I show you then?

     "Yea, so long as 'tis na some weapon, for keep in mind, ye wudna e'en clear the sack afore yer head hit the ground."

     "I wouldn't think of it!"  Edward smiled uneasily as he pulled the small chest from the bag. "She said it belonged to an Armstrong lad up this way, and if I would swear to return it  . . . She promised that she would lay with me that night."

     "An did she then?" Robert asked with a roguish grin.

     Edward ducked his head, pretending he was embarrassed by the question.  "Yea, she did that, but sadly, she left before she could give me his name.  Now, I’m bound by my pledge but have no knowledge of who the rightful owner is."

     Robert signed in annoyance.  "So why do ye reckon it belongs ta me?"

     "You're an Armstrong, are you not?" Edward asked, thinking the answer was quite obvious.

     "Yea, that's right enough, but there's many anuther on the Border, so why come ta me."

     Edward sat back against the trunk of the lone birch and sighed as if the proverbial albatross had reappeared around his neck.  He had to think quickly, but it was not easy with the blade of a Scottish short sword ready to sever your vocal chords.  Finally, it came to him.

     "She said he had deep crimson hair . . . and a quick temper."

     "What's that supposed ta mean?" the Scotsman growled.

     "Nothing, only please, take it so me oath is fulfilled.  I just want to be done with it."

     "Na so pleased wi the lassie now, are we?"  Robert looked at the tiny box.  His curiosity was definitely piqued.  "Well, bein ye've nae way o knowin the rightful owner, an seein I am o the same clan, I guess there'd be nae harm in me takin care o it for a while."

     "Exactly," Edward replied hastily as he pushed the intricate chest forward.

     "But wait! . . . Where did ye say ye come by this lass?"

     "Where?" the crafty Englishman stammered, " . . . Um . . ." 

     "An why did she na return it herself?" Robert queried, his eyes wary slits.

     "Um . . . well, you see  . . ."  Edward had not planned on having to answer so many questions, and once again, he felt as if someone had tied a huge knot in his tongue.  The Scot, however, had no patience for such chicanery.

     "Ach!  I thought as much . . . Ye'r a teller o tales, you."  Robert's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.  His lips became firm and determined as Edward felt the sharp blade cut into his skin.     "Carlisle!" the young outlander shouted. "I met her in Carlisle."           

     Robert pulled back, not quite sure whether or not he should believe the foul smelling  Englishman.  "Go on, then.  What were ye doin in Carlisle?"

     "I had business there.  I was to buy some wool for me father."

     "An she . . . How did she acquire sic a fine chest?"

     Edward hung his head.  "I don't know . . . Kill me if you must, but 'tis the truth.  She stole it I expect."

     Robert looked annoyed.  He was leaning on the hilt of his sword and sat quietly for a moment before speaking.  "An what was the wench's name, or did she slip away afore tellin ye that as well?"

     "Name?" Edward muttered awkwardly, knowing the future state of his anatomy might well hang upon his answer.  "'Twas not her name that caught me interest."

     Robert burst out in a whole-hearted laugh, smacking Edward amiably across the back.  "Ye'r all right for an Englishman, but tell me lad, was she worth it?"

     "Yea, she was that!" Edward replied, a tentative shrug concealing any lack of conviction that may have crossed his face. 

     He knew this was his chance.  The Scotsman had at last let down his guard, if only for a moment, and the cunning Englishman had every intention of taking advantage of the opportunity.   With an impish smile, he thrust forth the jeweled case once more.  He could feel his hands shaking slightly as he did, but the young Scot never even noticed.  His gaze was fixed on the tiny box that glistened in the fire light.  For a moment, he pondered his acceptance of such a costly object, biting his lip thoughtfully as he surveyed its bejeweled exterior, reviewing the arguments for and against taking it into his possession; until finally, he could no long resist.   Though still skeptical about its origins, he reached out to touch its sparkling surface.  In that brief instant, he knew he had made a mistake.  Brightly colored sparks began to fly from beneath its lid, and try as he might, Robert could not unhand it.

     "What form o witchcraft be this?" he shouted as the air began to swirl around his heels.

     "Not witchcraft," Edward grinned, content that he had, at last, won his prize, " . . .pure science!"

     A strong gust of wind nearly knocked Robert off his feet, and he had to duck his head against it.  Still he held firm to his sword, determined to fight whatever creatures he might encounter. 

     "Curse ye for castin this spell upon me," he bellowed as he struggled to raise his voice above the raging storm. 

     Edward simply smiled, looking rather like the Cheshire cat and not bothered at all by the tempest that seemed to swirl about them.  Filled with fury, Robert sought to lift his sword, but the gale force winds that beat against it held him fast.  Then, all at once, a strange calmness began to descend upon them, and a radiant glow burst forth from the surrounding area.

     Robert stood spellbound as he breathed in the sweet scent of heather and lilac.  A soft summer mist touched his rugged skin, and for a moment, he felt sure he had found paradise.  Could this be a messenger from God, come to take him to his just reward?  A sudden wave of fear ran down his spine, but still he held his ground; then slowly, reverently, he knelt before the young Englishman.

     "Be ye angel or devil comin ta claim me," he uttered bravely.

     "Me!" Edward exclaimed, amused at the thought.  "Neither, I'm afraid.  My name is Edward Foster, and I've done no more than bring you four-hundred and fifty years into the future."

RATE THIS CHAPTER!