Highland Betrayal Read online

He’d rolled his bucket-top boots up to protect his thighs once he mounted Fingall. Like him, the team was impatient to be off. Holding firmly to the reins of his lead horses, he cooed soothing words. Even with the help of ostlers from the civilian camp, Syddall, Baxter and Carr were having a difficult time controlling the agitated donkeys loaded with bags of shot and other equipment.

  There was also a loud altercation going on in the musketeer camp at the far end of the field. From what he could see, General Abbott was in the thick of it.

  “Atherton, Wilcock, run ahead and see what’s holding us up.”

  “Sir,” they chimed before hurrying off through the muddy field.

  He glanced across at the back of the sutler’s wagon, still waiting at the end of the dock. He assumed Solomon had returned to his seat, but there was no indication Esther Jacobs had emerged from her bed.

  He couldn’t see the civilian camp down the street but the racket of squabbles and unhappy children from that direction was impossible to ignore. The numbers had swollen with the arrival of Hartlock's followers. Too many people had crammed into the village’s small harbor and they were anxious to be on the move.

  Atherton and Wilcock returned five minutes later, their faces flushed. “The general’s in a temper, sir,” Atherton panted.

  “Him and Hartlock had a disagreement,” Wilcock added. “Abbott wanted his troops to stay together.”

  Morgan smiled inwardly. “And Hartlock challenged him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Atherton confirmed with a big smile, puffing out his chest. “But our general won.”

  Morgan deemed the lad’s sudden affection for Abbott amusing. However, the great man himself was riding in their direction, anger flushing his jowls. “Doesn’t look happy with his victory,” he observed.

  Wilcock stepped forward. “My brother told me there’s a musketeer gone missing, sir—didn’t report for duty and it’s delaying the march.”

  Morgan scoffed. “One musketeer’s absence is holding up the whole army? They frequently desert.”

  “Seems this one’s some kind of hero,” Atherton replied. “Due for promotion, and the general’s perplexed about it.”

  Morgan’s gut knotted. It could only be Pritchard. For a wild moment he feared Hannah might have murdered the wretch, but his panic subsided. She was courageous and determined, but she wasn’t a killer, though she had reason to seek revenge on Pritchard after the episode at the burn. “Mayhap he decided to celebrate his upcoming promotion and is lying in a ditch dead drunk.”

  His words must have sounded hollow since they elicited no response from his men. Did they share his suspicion that Pritchard would never be seen alive again? For some reason his eyes drifted to the sutler’s wagon, but then Abbott reined in his horse next to the saker. “Can’t wait any longer. We’ve marked a musketeer absent without leave. Poor show. Have your men fall in after our infantry.”

  “Sir,” Morgan replied, expecting his commander to ride off to the head of the column. Instead Abbott dismounted, led his horse round the front of the prison and disappeared.

  ~~~

  The rhythmic swaying of the oxcart and the unusual warmth of the summer’s morning lulled Hannah to sleep. From time to time she was aware of Angus’s gravelly voice; once she realized he was talking to the ox, his sing-song speech helped soothe her anxiety.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he called a halt. “Loch Kinord,” he announced. “’Twill get cooler from ’ere.”

  She surmised they were entering the foothills of the Grampians and a quick peek out from under the straw confirmed it. She startled when Angus appeared and thrust a lump of crumbly cheese into her hands. “Feena’s ’omemade,” he explained. “Sheep.”

  “I thank ye,” she replied, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. “How much further to Bouchmorale?”

  “‘Bout ’afway,” he mumbled, his mouth full of cheese.

  He disappeared, but the cart stayed where it was so she nestled the food in the hay and took the opportunity to clamber out. She walked stiffly to a nearby clump of bushes, assuming he was seeing to his own needs.

  She was readjusting her skirts when the ox and cart moved off. Cursing the blisters on her beleaguered feet, she hurried to catch up before Angus left her behind.

  “I hope King Charles appreciates my efforts,” she muttered, though there was no one to hear as she hoisted herself onto the back of the wagon. “Now to find the cheese.”

  ~~~

  As Morgan expected, the Elsick Trail hadn’t come into existence for the purpose of transporting artillery, but Hartlock's heavy guns and the booted feet of his infantry had smoothed the way for Abbott's little army.

  What surprised him was the general’s apparent wish to ride alongside Morgan’s team once he joined the column. “Good thing we’re in the rear,” he observed with a wink.

  The old fox had planned it thus!

  “Yes, thank you sir,” Morgan replied. “It’s easier going than I anticipated.”

  He didn’t mention the buffcoat, cuirass and high boots were making him sweat in the summer heat.

  “Impossible to foretell Scottish weather,” the general observed, as if he’d read Morgan’s mind. “We froze at Dùn Fhoithear, and now we swelter. It will cool off once we get to the mountains.”

  This conversational side of Abbott made Morgan nervous. He wondered what the general had been up to when he’d disappeared in Stonehyve.

  His commander frowned. “Too bad about Pritchard, though I doubt he had the makings of a corporal. His desertion proves it, wouldn’t you say?”

  Morgan had his own opinion of Pritchard, but wasn’t about to divulge what had happened at the burn. “I didn’t trust the man,” he said.

  “Neither did I,” Abbott agreed. “I believe he did overhear the information he passed on to us, but implicating Maggie Campbell…” He hesitated, as if searching for his next words. “…The woman’s a common trollop. Hardly the sort the Royalists would chose as a spy. I believe he wanted to settle a grudge against her, mayhap thought he’d been charged too much.” He chuckled, eyeing Morgan who quickly looked away. “I ordered her freed before we left.”

  It seemed the stern man had a heart after all. Morgan risked the question gnawing at him. “And Pritchard didn’t accuse anyone else?”

  “No, and I wouldn’t have given credence if he had. I’ve come across his sort before, no matter where I’ve fought—Cadiz, La Rochelle, the Netherlands, Breda.”

  Mention of famous battles fought so long ago gave Morgan a new insight into his commander’s history. King Charles I had been responsible for the ill-fated naval expedition to Cadiz as well as Buckingham’s unsuccessful attempt to rouse the French Huguenots that led to the siege at La Rochelle. “You were the king’s man, nonetheless, sir?”

  Abbott chuckled. “Yes. At eighteen I was forced to go abroad after I assaulted the Under Sheriff of Devon.”

  Morgan glanced back at Atherton mounted on the second string, hoping the youth hadn’t overheard.

  “Don’t worry, Pendray,” the general said. “It was in revenge for a wrong done to my father. I never regretted it. I was born to be a soldier. Like you.”

  Morgan’s mind whirled. He’d joined the army to get away from his family and his grief, but he’d never considered himself a career soldier.

  “Ironically,” Abbott went on, evidently not expecting a reply, “it was another quarrel, this time with the civil authorities in Dordrecht, that caused me to return to England and the lieutenant-colonelcy of the Earl of Newport’s regiment.”

  Morgan was on firmer ground now. “Every soldier in Cromwell’s army knows your history,” he told the general. “Your skill and quick thinking saved the English artillery at the Battle of Newburn.”

  Abbott mopped his brow. “Yes, Oliver is fond of bragging of my prowess.”

  It was a cautionary reminder to Morgan he was speaking with one of the Protector’s closest friends.

  “Do you
know why my name was put forward as governor of Dublin?” Abbott asked.

  Morgan had no doubt now he was being tested. But to what end?

  “I made myself indispensable during the Irish rebellion against the king. Or so I thought until His Majesty overruled my appointment in favor of Cavan.”

  Morgan felt he should offer something to the conversation lest Abbott think he lacked interest. “However, sir, your assessment of the Irish war impressed King Charles to such a degree, he gave you command of the army.”

  “Yes, but in a lost cause, as you know. I was taken prisoner by the Parliamentary army at Nantwich and spent two years in the Tower.”

  A long silence followed. Morgan supposed the general was reliving the years of imprisonment. It afforded him time to consider why a powerful man well-known for his impenetrable secrecy, was sharing these personal recollections with him.

  “I wrote a book while I was in prison. My experience in Ireland came to Cromwell’s notice. I was released and sent to quell the Irish after swearing loyalty to the Parliamentary cause. What’s a fellow to do when even a king’s head isn’t safe from the chopping block?”

  Morgan hoped his astonishment wasn’t written on his face. The conversation had turned treasonous. He sought to redirect it to a safer topic. “Then you came to Scotland, sir.”

  Abbott cast his gaze on the surrounding hills and dales. “Scotland is a beautiful land. Look around, Pendray. This is God’s country. Hard to believe Roman soldiers once marched along the very road we’re travelling now.”

  Morgan vaguely recalled the history tutor at Shrewsbury mentioning Roman military camps in Scotland, but his thoughts centered more on Hannah. She would agree with the general about the beauty of her country, but she hated him for the blood that flowed in the streets after his victories.

  “Too much blood spilled during this campaign,” Abbott said softly. “It sickened me to the point I had to retire to Bath to recover my health.”

  Hannah would take no comfort in knowing that.

  “I hope the action we’re embarking on will put an end to the rebellion,” Morgan said, clutching at a small straw of hope.

  Abbott nodded. “I’m confident it will, if we succeed in capturing the leaders. Cromwell has asked me to be Governor of Scotland once the war is won.”

  Morgan suspected even Hartlock wasn’t privy to that piece of information. “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you. I’ll need good men in my service if it comes to pass. Men who understand this conflict isn’t black and white. Your background gives you a unique perspective. The future is by no means certain, Pendray.”

  Morgan wasn’t entirely sure what the general was referring to, and it was the first time he’d ever heard his Welsh birth being spoken of as an asset, but he noticed his commander had edged his horse closer to the team.

  “I worry about what will happen when Oliver dies,” he confided. “His son doesn’t have the capacity to govern.”

  Morgan deemed it advisable to offer no reply, and he was rendered completely mute by the next salvo. “Prince Charles has written to me from Paris, you know.”

  His consternation must have been evident on his face because Abbott laughed. “Don’t worry, lad. We’ll not be crowning him King Charles II any time soon.”

  He turned his horse, but then seemed to change his mind. “By the by,” he announced loudly, “Hartlock has endorsed my recommendation you be promoted to the rank of major.”

  “Sir?”

  “Couldn’t have taken Dùn Fhoithear without you. There’ll be a formal ceremony of course, but consider yourself Major Pendray as of now. Ignore Jenkinson, he’s a pompous ass. You answer only to me.”

  Morgan looked up at the sky, fearful the entire exchange had been a figment of his imagination, but Atherton brought him back to the reality of the situation. “Congratulations, Major Pendray, sir,” he shouted.

  Morgan could only raise a hand in acknowledgement, his gut in knots as he watched Abbott's horse amble away. Advancement, a secure future with the army, eventual retirement with a reasonable pension—it was what he thought he’d wanted for a long time. But now life was more complicated. His world had narrowed to longing to see Hannah again—the woman who’d stolen Scotland’s Honors from under the general’s nose.

  Abbott evidently trusted him. It was laughable.

  SIGNPOSTS

  Hannah lay awake in the hay wagon for hours as the afternoon wore on. She was glad of the extra warmth of Esther’s shawl. The going was slower, steeper. The rushing waters of the Dee, always somewhere nearby, soothed her spirit.

  She rehearsed over and over what to say and do when they reached Bouchmorale. If her uncle wasn’t there, she’d have a difficult time explaining herself to clan chiefs she didn’t know. This was unfamiliar territory and she hoped the hunting lodge would come into view before darkness fell, but the oxcart trundled to a halt even before dusk.

  “Best ye wait ’ere,” Angus shouted.

  She scrambled to poke her head out of the straw. They’d arrived at the confluence of the Dee and a smaller river. A trail led off the main road they’d traveled and disappeared into the distant hills. “Where are we?” she asked, plucking straw from her hair.

  “Bridge o’ Gairn,” he replied, pointing up the trail to an ancient stone bridge that spanned a stream she supposed was the Gairn.

  “But why are we stopping here?”

  “From Inverness they’ll approach down yonder trail, cross the bridge and carry on to Bouchmorale. I must start back afore nightfall.”

  Her heart plummeted as she scanned the barren landscape. “Ye intend to leave me here? There’s nay a cottage in sight.”

  “’Tis sorry I am, lassie,” he replied, “but I canna teck ye further.”

  “But what if they’ve already passed by? Mayhap they’re at the lodge.”

  Angus was already urging the lumbering beast to turn. “I hae ma doots. If they havna arrived by mornin’, ye could walk the rest. Follow yon river for aboot ten mile.”

  Ten miles! She doubted her ability to put one foot in front of the other at the moment.

  Left with no choice but to climb out of the wagon, she landed on unsteady legs and glared at him. He’d taken a risk bringing her this far, and she supposed she should be grateful, but she was hungry and had never spent a night out in the open, alone, in the middle of nowhere. The life of a rebel was becoming less appealing by the minute.

  How she missed Morgan’s comforting embrace.

  Angus handed her a heel of bread. “No cheese left.”

  “Thank you,” she said politely, though she itched to beg him not to abandon her.

  As the cart creaked away, she lunged forward and grabbed an armful of hay from the stack. It was thieving, but she had to have something to keep her warm once the sun went down.

  ~~~

  “They’re Pictish symbols,” Morgan explained to his crew gathered round the megalith near where the column had halted for lunch.

  “Pictish, sir?” Carr asked.

  “Ancient folk who dwelt here,” Atherton replied, in a tone that suggested Carr should have known all about the Picts.

  “Right you are, Atherton,” Morgan confirmed with a smile.

  “What do they mean, sir?” Carr asked, looking at Atherton as if defying him to provide the answer.

  Atherton looked uncertain. “Directions, I suppose, sir?”

  “Right again. There are probably other standing stones along the route with the same symbols. They let travellers know they were on the right trail.”

  “Clever,” Baxter remarked. “Like signposts.”

  Morgan enjoyed opening the eyes of these lads to new knowledge. They’d not had the benefit of an education as he had. He suspected more than one of his crew had enlisted as a way out of poverty or abuse. Yet to a man they were always keen to do his bidding, and expressed utter delight with his promotion.

  As they milled around the monolith, munching biscuits
and cheese, a comforting warmth settled on Morgan’s nape. He couldn’t escape the feeling Hannah had looked up at these same ancient carvings. He touched a hand to the stone, shaken when a tingling hummed up his arm. He pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned, and clenched his jaw, convinced she was on her way to Bouchmorale. He scanned the horizon trying to imagine traveling this lonely road at night. Was she alone, or with other conspirators?

  Once more he felt only admiration for her courage, but if he ever saw her again he’d let her know in no uncertain terms how angry he was she kept risking her life for a vain prince in exile who didn’t know she existed.

  He ought to alert Abbott to his suspicions that the rebels gathering at Bouchmorale might be forewarned, but what to say? The rock tells me the woman I love came by this way. That would put a swift end to his promotion, and his career.

  Despite the danger, Morgan couldn’t rid his brain of the notion he might see Hannah again.

  ~~~

  As night fell, Hannah tucked her knees to her chin and wedged herself under the bridge, thankful the Gairn was a summer stream and not a springtime torrent. Even so, the water was a mere foot from her ice-cold toes and the stones on which she sat were damp. If it rained the bridge would provide shelter, but then the stream might swell.

  She heaped the stolen straw over her legs, already feeling the chill in her thighs. She’d scoffed the bread long ago in a fit of pique over being abandoned, but now wished she hadn’t been so hasty. Hunger gnawed at her innards.

  She stared at the rippling water. “At least I willna die of thirst,” she muttered, curling her fists into the woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  Leaning back against the cold stone, she considered her plight.

  Perhaps she should have walked to Bouchmorale while some daylight remained. Her uncle would have made sure she was warm and fed, as he always had.

  She brushed away the tears that suddenly flowed. Glenheath had taken her in when no one else wanted his orphaned niece. She owed him a great deal and had willingly supported his plans to lead the rebellion. But she’d paid a heavy price for her involvement in his schemes, and it was a bitter truth that losing Morgan was the biggest sacrifice of all.