In the Time of Kings Read Online Free PDF

Inverness for our day trip to the Orkneys. The steady churning of the water behind the boat, the chug of its engine and the pea soup fog give a very surreal feel to our adventure, as if we’re slipping into some long ago time.
    Claire is asleep, her head resting against my arm, pressing on a nerve there. The numbness is spreading downward from my shoulder, so I shift, but the guy next to me is dozing soundly, too, and I don’t want to be responsible for waking both of them up. So I suffer, trapped between them, until I can’t feel my fingers anymore.
    Occasionally, gulls cut through the veil of drizzle to buzz our intrepid little craft, but upon discovering it’s not a fishing boat and there’s no lunch to be had, they flap away into the sea’s breath, squawking their complaints. Soon, the low hum of the engine and monotonous slapping of the waves against the hull lull me, too, to sleep.
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    A bell clangs to my left, startling me awake. Our meager crew springs to life, tramping over the deck and unraveling ropes as thick as their arms. The ferry drifts on black water toward the dock, the fog parting to reveal a canopied welcoming area. Beyond it, I can see a small, touristy village, its main street lined with the requisite eating establishments, a post office, and a chemist. The side roads are lined with stone houses with white-paned windows. Even in the glum light of a cloud-laden day, their black slate roofs glisten with dampness.
    After rousing Claire, who immediately exclaims her hunger, we chow down at the pub closest to the dock and then dash through the shops. Soon, we’re on our way again, the little ferry boat putt-putting along, the skies finally beginning to clear at noon. To the east, dark waters stretch endlessly beneath a blue dome of sky. Our path begins to curve westward, where the isle they call Mainland rises. Colonies of terns dot the shoreline. Seals with their mottled pale brown coats are sunning themselves on the rocks. They stretch their whiskered noses and bellow at our passing. Every time a clump of seals appears, Claire rushes to snap pictures. There will be hundreds to sort through when this trip is over.
    After disembarking at Kirkwall, we’re directed to a gathering tour group. As the guide circulates through the crowd to collect her fee, I pull out my wallet.
    Claire flaps a map at me. “Let’s go off on our own, okay?”
    I finger the brightly colored bills. “Hmm, I don’t know, honey. I’d hate to get lost and end up missing the boat back to the mainland. Our luggage is still in Inverness.”
    Sighing, she turns pleading eyes on me. “Ross, we’ve been surrounded by people since we got on the first train. I’ve been forced to converse with more retired Floridians than I ever met at home in the States. I just want to be alone with you for awhile.” Her lower lip juts out. “Pleeease?”
    The tour guide halts in front of us, wiggling her fingers. “Coming along?”
    “Not today, thanks.” I stuff the bills away and slip my wallet into my back pocket before offering Claire my elbow. “You lead the way.”
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    E xhaust fumes spew from the tailpipe of a sputtering green tour bus parked on a side road. We squeeze between it and a low stone wall topped with wrought iron, but are waylaid by a stream of tall, fair-haired women chattering excitedly in either Swedish or Norwegian. They congregate next to a gate, where an English-speaking guide with a thick Scottish accent welcomes them and waves them through.
    I start to follow, but Claire clamps a hand on my forearm and shakes her head.
    “Can we at least go around the corner?” I say. “The fumes are making me sick. I don’t think you want me to hurl right here next to a church in front of all these nice people.”
    We slip past the last of the tourist group and swing around the corner. Her finger glued to the map, Claire stops dead, then glances up at the front of the