Highland Betrayal Page 2

  It was painfully slow going in the darkness and she had to stop to rest several times. Dawn was breaking when she finally reached the safe house at Kinneff, a few miles to the south. Ready to drop from exhaustion, she collapsed into the arms of Reverend Grainger when he opened his door to her frantic knocking.

  He eased the straps of the basket off her numbed shoulders and ushered her into the house. “God bless ye, lass,” he mumbled. “Ye’ll receive yer reward in heaven.”

  She was glad to be rid of the crippling weight, but her knees trembled with a greater relief. She was no longer carrying the stomach-churning burden of the conspiracy alone.

  Mrs. Grainger waddled towards her. “Praise be to the Lord ye made it here safely, child,” she gushed. “All went well?”

  The minister shuffled away to a curtained-off area which she supposed served as the couple’s bedroom.

  Hannah appreciated the diminutive woman’s wide-eyed concern, but the last thing she wanted to do was retell the terrifying ordeal until she’d slept. However, the minister’s wife led her to the hearth and bade her sit on a stool. There was clearly no escape. She touched a hand to one of the deep welts left by the straps. “Aye. ’Twas heavy.”

  “What a ninny I am,” Mrs. Grainger replied, bustling to a nearby shelf crammed with dark bottles of all shapes and sizes. “Let’s see. Embrocation, I think,” she declared, uncorking one of the bottles.

  The reek of whatever concoction was kneaded into her flesh nigh on stole the last of Hannah’s wits, but feeling began to return to her stiff limbs. She’d benefit from an application of the stuff on her bruised bottom, but didn’t like to mention it. Mayhap if she dropped a hint. “I fell a few times on the rocks,” she murmured, rubbing her hip.

  Mrs. Grainger tutted as she stoppered the bottle and drew another stool alongside. “Aye. Slippery they are, no doubt.”

  Hannah yawned, recalling the one bright memory in a sea of dread. “I saw a wee crab.”

  Her remark elicited a curious frown, but she was too tired to explain the important role the creature had played in bolstering her courage, and she’d be deemed a lunatic if she confessed she’d talked with the crab. “’Tis hard to tell ye how honored I felt when I laid hands on the treasure.”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Grainger replied, tears welling, “and ye managed to haul it up from the shore by yersel’, and all the way here to Kinneff. Ye’re such a wee thing.”

  That observation struck Hannah as amusing, since the woman barely came up to her breasts, but the urge to chuckle somehow emerged as another yawn.

  Then she shivered at the memory of the heart-stopping climb up from the beach. “One o’ the English saw me when I got to the top.”

  The minister’s wife clutched her hands. “Did he challenge ye?”

  Hannah shook her head. “At first I thought he was waving, but then I realized he was giving the signal to fire the cannon again.”

  She refrained from mentioning she’d been assailed by a momentary notion that the tall, broad-shouldered Englishman looked very striking atop the cliff, the afternoon sun glinting off his rounded lobster-tailed helmet. A peculiar urge to wave had seized her, but she decided terror and conversing with crabs must have addled her brain. Cromwell’s soldiers were despicable invaders.

  Mrs. Grainger eyed her, but she rambled on, “I feared I might retch, but he didna follow me.”

  She was distracted from these confusing thoughts when Mr. Grainger reappeared with the basket, his round face ruddy. “’Tis done,” he exclaimed breathlessly, mopping his brow. “We’ll keep the dulse to make laverbread. The Honors are safely hidden until we can bury ’em in the church after dark.”

  Afraid she didn’t have the courage to withstand torture in the event of capture, Hannah deemed it preferable she not be privy to the temporary hiding place. However, Mrs. Grainger seemed anxious to divulge the information. “Aye,” she said gleefully, eyes bright. “No one will think to look under a minister’s bed for the crown o’ our rightful king.”

  SURRENDER

  The biting wind returned with a vengeance around mid-morning the next day. Morgan tightened his shoulders, regretting he’d left his cape in the tent. The heavy ox-hide buffcoat under his cuirass that normally provided good protection from the weather wasn’t warding off the chill. His toes were frozen in the leather bucket-top boots, though it was the month of May and he’d donned his woollen stockings. He fervently hoped the siege would be over well before winter arrived. He hadn’t packed his longues jambes in his trunk, foolishly expecting Scotland to be milder than Wales.

  He scowled at the hundred or so musketeers huddled around smoldering campfires further down the slope. The cannon had rendered them redundant. They often snuck off to the civilian camp, the married men to rut with wives, the unmarried to be relieved of their meagre pay. It wasn’t unusual for them to be drunk when they returned. They wouldn’t be needed again until the castle capitulated, though occasionally Abbott called for a round of random fire at the battlements. Morgan doubted the men inside the high walls were foolhardy enough to expose themselves to snipers.

  Despite his best intentions to keep his thoughts off the young woman who’d visited his dreams, he looked back to the empty cliff path and swallowed his disappointment. Mayhap she only came now and again to the rocky shore. Whatever she’d been collecting certainly filled the basket. He’d probably be back in Edinburgh the next time she wandered up the path.

  All the more reason to seek her out, though the commander insisted the men stick together whenever they marched to Stonehyve or Dunnottar to commandeer livestock. Some of the women were related to the stubborn defenders of Dùn Fhoithear and made no effort to hide the naked hatred in their hooded eyes. He hoped the pretty lass’s husband wasn’t within the walls.

  A loud cry interrupted his musings.

  They’re comin’ out.

  “Reposition the gun,” General Abbott shouted. “I want it trained on the gate.”

  His gut in knots, Morgan ran to obey, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other securing the helmet he despised. Not a religious man, he nevertheless prayed his commander didn’t intend to massacre the soldiers who were apparently about to surrender. If such an order came he’d have no choice but to obey or be shot for insubordination.

  From the worried looks on the faces of his gunners as they shifted and reloaded the cannon, he suspected they too feared the worst would be expected of them. Satisfied the gun was properly aimed, he reluctantly raised his arm.

  Roused from their indolent fire-gazing, the musketeers slung bandoliers of powder apostles across their bodies and hurried to load as they fell in behind the cannon.

  Morgan had felt chilled, but now ice flowed through his veins as they waited. A minute turned into five. The blood drained from his numbed fingers. His raised arm ached like the devil.

  They emerged, twenty men at most, led by an elderly nobleman he assumed was Lord Ogilvy. They marched out as if on regimental parade, their plaids filthy but properly draped, blue bonnets jaunty atop heads held high. A polished sword hung from a belt slung across every chest, and muskets rested on broad shoulders. A large shot-pouch hung at the apex of bare legs. Emaciated limbs and gaunt, bearded faces betrayed the deprivation they’d suffered, but proud defiance glinted in every eye, and not one so much as glanced at the awesome firepower aimed at them.

  Morgan couldn’t keep his arm raised for much longer, but if he dropped it the ashen-faced Smythe might mistake his action for the signal to fire. He tried to take his mind off the situation by recalling a tale he’d heard of some battle or other when the Scots had discarded their plaids and rushed at the enemy naked from the waist down.

  For some unfathomable reason, this ludicrous image brought on thoughts of the raven-haired girl he’d seen on the path the previous day, and his manhood stirred again. She’d hate him if she knew he was responsible for the senseless murder of her countrymen.

  He shook away the absurd notion. This
desolate place and these fiercely proud Scots had robbed him of his wits. He had no interest in a peasant wench, despite his body’s reaction, although it might be worth seeking her out in Stonehyve, if only to satisfy his curiosity about the possible uses of seaweed. Or mayhap she lived in Dunnottar. He scoffed at his foolishness. They’d be even less welcome in either village now the fortress had fallen. And once the crown jewels were destroyed…

  His gut clenched. He didn’t relish scouring the castle for the royal treasure and doubted these stubborn Scots would reveal its whereabouts, even under torture. The whole business sickened him. Dùn Fhoithear was of strategic value, but that wasn’t the main reason for the siege. Mayhap when the cursed Scottish campaign was over he’d resign his commission and go back to Wales, though his homeland held naught but bitter memories.

  “Gunners at ease,” Abbott yelled hoarsely.

  Morgan frantically waved both arms over his head, inhaling deeply to steady his thudding heart.

  The general turned his attention to the Highlanders. “Lord Ogilvy, instruct your men to throw down their weapons,” he commanded.

  The Scot smirked. “The muskets are nay loaded. We ran out o’ shot a month since.”

  Abbott bristled. “Nevertheless. Swords and daggers too, if you please.”

  BURIED SECRETS

  Hannah slept fitfully throughout the day, too aware of the priceless treasure inches beneath her. The Graingers had insisted she sleep in their small bed, the only one in the tiny house. “’Tis fitting,” Mrs. Grainger said with a wink.

  Proud as she was of her role in the rescue, Hannah didn’t have the heart to admit she’d prefer to be a hundred miles away from the crown jewels.

  Mr. Grainger left the cottage. His wife busied herself in the kitchen, muttering her apologies every time a pot or pan clanged. The linens were clean, but would have to be laundered again since Hannah was too exhausted to strip off her filthy shift. The odor of elderly folk lingered in the straw of the mattress, adding to her malaise. She marveled that the couple managed to sleep together in the small bed. Certainly a man as big as the soldier she’d seen atop the cliffs could never share such a bed with a woman. She gritted her teeth and pounded the hard bolster, worried she’d picked up some noxious fever from the feisty crab’s little pool.

  She prayed sleep would come once the leaden ball in her belly went away, but that notion resurrected the memory of the cannon’s boom.

  Darkness finally crept into the chamber. She drifted, remembering the difficult climb up the slope, and the waving soldier. A sob tightened her throat when she remembered his arm raised as a signal for the gun. The officer who’d preoccupied her thoughts was responsible for the carnage wrought by the artillery piece.

  She startled when a hand shook her shoulder. Had the Roundhead pursued her?

  “Come, lass. We’ll need yer help.”

  She blinked open her eyes, startled by the eerie faces of the Graingers looming over her like gargoyles in the flickering light of a candle. The minister suddenly disappeared and she felt the canvas bundle catch on the ropes as he dragged it from beneath the bed.

  Mrs. Grainger brandished a shovel in one hand, the tallow in the other. “’Tis made o’ clay,” she whispered, as if that explained everything.

  Hannah inhaled deeply, then got out of bed, remembering with a sinking heart that Scotland’s Honors had yet to be buried ’neath the floor of Kinneff’s little church.

  They spent most of the night accomplishing the heavy task. The minister used the shovel. The women scooped out mounds of dirt with small wooden bowls. Hannah fretted her clothing would never be clean again. Her hands were filthy, her fingernails broken and caked with muck. Aches and pains bore into her back and knees, and she’d a raging thirst.

  When the minister deemed the hole big enough, Hannah sank back on her haunches. She grew impatient when he got to his feet, put both hands on his hips and stretched out his back before shuffling off into the shadows.

  “Gone to cleanse his hands,” his wife murmured, her eyes fixed on the canvas.

  Hannah wondered where he would find water to wash, but a door banged softly and soon he reappeared, wiping his hands on what looked like a vestment.

  He knelt again and slowly unwrapped the canvas.

  Exhaustion, fears, doubts—all flew away like chaff on the wind when Hannah set eyes on the treasure.

  She gaped when Mr. Grainger held up the crown in both hands. Even in the dim light of the tallow the jewels were an awesome sight.

  “’Tis a fair weight,” he observed.

  “Aye,” his wife sighed. “O’er a hundred years since King James had it fashioned with more than forty gemstones, and pearls from all o’ Scotland’s rivers. I’ll warrant the stones from the English regalia weren’t destroyed like folk claim. Likely found their way into Cromwell’s greedy hands.”

  Chances were she was right, and Hannah was proud she’d done all she could to make sure such wasn’t the fate of Scotland’s Honors.

  “Some kind o’ red leaf carved into yon gold, I reckon,” the minister whispered.

  Hannah looked more closely. She’d seen such exquisite craftsmanship before. “Oak. Enamelled.”

  “Ermine, I suppose,” Mrs. Grainger said, pointing to the white fur around the base.

  “Aye,” her husband confirmed. “But we canna spend all night gawking. Wrap up the sceptre,” he told his wife.

  Hannah caught a brief glimpse of the huge polished stone atop the sceptre and wished she could get a closer look. However, the minister was correct, though he seemed reluctant to hand over the crown he held.

  Mrs. Grainger lovingly wrapped the sceptre in one of the linen sheets she’d fetched.

  “Dear, dear,” Mr. Grainger muttered as he drew out the sword.

  Hannah gasped. The long weapon had been broken in two. “I couldna fathom how they got it into the basket,” she whispered.

  “Weel, now we ken,” Mrs. Grainger replied. “Likely broke Lord Ogilvy’s heart, but better two halves than nothing.”

  Hannah leaned forward to examine the sword. Her uncle had told her about the images of Peter and Paul etched into the blade as well as the name of the Pope who had presented the sword to King James the Fourth, but there wasn’t enough light to see properly.

  Once everything had been wrapped, Hannah helped lower each piece of the treasure into the hole, then clasped her dirty hands together at her breast as the minister exhorted his Savior to protect them.

  They refilled the hole and stomped on the earth like demonic dancers. Hannah used the flat of the shovel to tamp down the clay, though her arms felt like lead weights. Every owl hoot, every creak of the old wooden timbers sent shivers up her spine. She was certain someone would hear and notice the light flickering through the narrow windows.

  It was still dark when the three stole out of the church, satisfied no one would suspect they’d dug a hole big enough to hide the prize. The clay floor was no more uneven than when they’d begun.

  “Dinna be concerned,” Mrs. Grainger clucked, patting her filthy hand. “James and I intend to dig ’em up every once in a while.”

  She’d suspected from the first the woman wasna quite right in the noggin. Now she was sure of it. “Dig ’em up?” she parroted.

  “Aye. For air, lest the damp wreak havoc with the velvet and such.”

  Her exhausted mind had to agree it made sense, and a touch of madness was after all a requirement for such a dangerous mission. Her uncle had said as much when she’d first suggested the plan.

  “By the by,” Mr. Grainger whispered. “Ye canna return to Dùn Fhoithear.”

  She intended never to see the wretched place again. Arrangements had been made by agents in Stonehyve for her to return home to the west. Her Uncle Munro had other schemes in mind to thwart Cromwell’s plans for Scotland. However, she felt obliged to respond to the old woman. “Why not?”

  “A runner arrived wi’ news the siege is o’er. Abbott is scour
ing the fortress for the Honors. ’Tis rumored he’s trying to extract the information from Lady Ogilvy and they say the plight of the wounded is pitiful. I doubt the whores among the camp followers know aught about nursing, and the women from Stonehyve will be reluctant to offer help, fearing they’ll be raped and murdered.”

  Hannah gritted her teeth. The cries of the slaughtered innocents of Dùn Dè echoed in her ears. There was still unfinished business for a royalist spy in Dùn Fhoithear.

  ~~~

  Since long before the invasion of the Normans centuries before, Morgan’s Welsh ancestors had fought against English domination of their country—and lost. The Black Death had come close to wiping them out, but they’d recovered and rejoiced when Henry VII became the first Welsh-born king of England.

  Morgan thought it ironic, but somehow fitting, that two hundred years after Henry Tudor’s coronation he was serving in Cromwell’s New Model Army. The Protector’s goal was to eradicate any traces of the monarchy Welshmen had fought against for hundreds of years.

  The blood of warrior ancestors flowed in Morgan’s veins, and he was certainly no lover of the English Crown, but he didn’t hold with torturing women. He suspected Abbott hadn’t known Lord Ogilvy’s wife was inside Dùn Fhoithear’s walls, but that was no reason to incarcerate her with the rest of the survivors in the bowels of the castle. Few men withstood the rigors of imprisonment in the fetid dungeons of any bastion. He’d caught a brief glimpse of Lady Ogilvy, a frail elderly woman who’d tended sick and dying men for months without proper sustenance.

  The general’s frustration increased as the hours passed without a trace of the crown jewels, despite an exhaustive search of every nook and cranny. His fat face grew redder, his bellowed commands louder. He’d harangued the Ogilvys, his bulbous nose almost in the poor woman’s face, before consigning the obviously exhausted pair to the cells.