Time Trapped Read Online Free PDF

church sanctuary. But judging from the display of swords, dirks and other assorted blades ringing the walls of the room, this is no church.
    The only furniture in sight is a long table and chairs. At the far end of the room, just past a stone archway, a huge pig is turning on a spit in a massive fireplace.
    Luca is turning the crank of the spit.
    Frank, Lydia and Raoul are standing near the fireplace, talking. Or rather, Frank is doing the talking and the others are listening.
    As I approach, Raoul says, “Hi, Caleb. I’m glad you’re back.”
    â€œThanks, Raoul,” I say. I suppose I could have added, “It’s good to be back,” for the benefit of Uncle’s listening devices, but there’s probably no point, since the more modern ones have an app that can tell if you’re lying.
    Lydia barely glances my way before whispering something to Frank. I can pretty much guess what’s going through her mind—that I’m a fool for having tried to escape and that I’m going to get punished big-time and that she doesn’t want to be anywhere near me when that happens because sometimes punishment has a way of spilling over onto anyone who happens to be close by.
    Just then, a horn blares. Three long bursts.
    Everyone stops what they’re doing. A moment later, I hear footsteps approaching.
    â€œHe’s coming,” whispers Raoul, and suddenly I have an idea for a new game show. It will be called
You Don’t Say!
The way it works is all the contestants try to outdo each other by saying things that are not only obvious but
painfully
obvious. With that gem, Raoul would easily make it to the semifinals.
    Seconds later, Uncle enters the room. He’s wearing a shirt made of finely woven iron rings over a sky blue tunic. His open-faced helmet is shiny, pointed and draped with iron mail. In his left hand, he carries a stout shield of dark oak emblazoned with a blue lion. In his right, he holds a great battle-ax with a wicked-looking curve.
    I wonder which one it’s going to be? The shield or the ax? One good bop on the head from that shield, and I’ll be out like a light. But that would be too quick for Uncle’s taste. He’s probably more likely to slice and dice me with the ax—carve me up like that pig roasting on the spit.
    When he gets to within a few feet of us, he stops, clears his throat and recites,
    â€œScots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
    Scots, wham Bruce has aften led!
    Welcome to your gory bed,
    Or to victorie.
    â€œNow’s the day an’ now’s the hour;
    See the front of battle lour—
    See approach proud Edward’s power,
    Chains and slaverie!
    â€œWha will be a traitor knave?
    Wha will fill a coward’s grave?
    Wha sae base as be a slave?
    Let him turn and flee!”
    He pauses and wipes away a tear, which is a chancy thing to do when you’re holding a battle-ax.
    â€œThat, my friends,” says Uncle, “is part of the ‘Scots Wha Hae,’ the song that is the unofficial national anthem of Scotland. It was penned by one of the greatest poets in history, Robert Burns. It is even more beautiful in Gaelic. The poem is an ode to another Robert, one who is dear to my heart: the incomparable Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland, savior of the Scottish people, warrior and statesman.”
    A sound catches my attention. Raoul is tapping his boot on the stone floor.
    â€œOn this very day, seven hundred and forty-seven years ago, a great battle was fought only a few miles from here, at Bannockburn. At stake was Stirling Castle, the last of the great castles not yet taken by the English. Robert the Bruce himself was in the thick of things, riding and wielding his battle-ax. You see, my friends, he was a leader who didn’t skulk behind stone walls while his soldiers got bloodied on the battlefield—he led his men from the front.
    â€œOn that fateful day in 1314, Sir Henry de Bohun, a knight of the