by Jill Jones
Yes, even as we write these words, we are convinced that we shall marry Darnley. Surely since it was Elizabeth who sent him, she must mean for it to be. Our union would be perfect, for like us, he is a descendant of Henry VII of England. Our issue would be directly in line for the throne of both England and Scotland, after Elizabeth of course. Perhaps Darnley is the key to to peace between England and Scotland, although our marriage would in the beginning, we fear, cause a great uproar amongst our nobles. But we shall give him the title of King Henry and the power to quell their dissent.
Oh, yes, we shall marry Darnley, to suit ourself and spite our Lords. We shall send an emissary to Elizabeth this very day.
To spite her lords? Robert Gordon was astounded. The Queen had married Lord Darnley out of spite? How different this account than that of recorded history, which stated that the Queen had fallen hopelessly in love with the hated son of Lennox. But if she hadn’t loved him, it might explain her later complicity in his murder. Suddenly the pages he was painstakingly translating became an intriguing murder mystery as well as a record of perhaps Scotland’s most infamous royal.
Chapter Nine
When her eyes opened again, Taylor awoke to violet-blue predawn light filtering through a crudely glazed window above where she lay. Blinking away the fuzzy remnants of sleep, she tried to remember where she was. She lay comfortably against something large and warm that held her in a protective embrace into which she instinctively cuddled…until she realized it was Duncan’s body.
Taylor bolted out of his arms, remembering everything. She had hoped it was all just a nightmare,that she would awaken in her own time in the old inn in Stovehaven, where Cromwell and his troops were forever tucked away in history books. Instead, she remained in the sleeping quarters of the shanty belonging to Kenneth and Greta Fraser, curled up against a man she scarcely knew.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” Taylor shook him roughly, not wanting to think about how she momentarily had relished the security and comfort of his embrace. Those kind of feelings were dangerous and misplaced at the moment, born of the circumstances, not of rational thought.
Duncan was awake instantly, and together they emerged from behind the curtain into the main room of the house. Kenneth and Greta were seated by the fire, their faces drawn and weary. Taylor felt guilty that she and Duncan had taken their sleeping space. They looked as if they had stayed up all night.
“Good morning,” Taylor managed, wishing she could affect a Scottish accent.
Greta looked at her with a forced half-smile, but it was her husband who spoke. “Are ye feelin’ better after some rest?”
Taylor nodded. The initial shock of yesterday’s events had worn off, and she had begun to assimilate the dreadful possibilities their situation presented. With a return to more rational thinking came also a return to her normal instinct for self-preservation. Something about their “kinsmens’” tense attitude, especially Greta’s, raised goosebumps on her skin.
Kenneth stood and dipped something white and runny from the same pot the mystery meal had been served from the night before. “Take some gruel,” he said, handing a bowl to each of them this time. “It’ll warm ye. We dinna know what th’ day will bring, and we must all be ready.”
Taylor’s stomach growled. She tried to remember the last meal she ate and couldn’t. Gruel sounded like “cruel,” but something was better than nothing, she decided, accepting the bowl with a murmur of thanks. The gruel was palatable enough, tasting a little like oatmeal, and she quickly downed the entire bowl.
“Ah, I knew ye’d be hungry.” Greta said, her scarcely concealed contempt mollified somewhat that this time her food had been accepted.
When the two had eaten their fill, Kenneth said to Duncan, “Hath ye a horse, or came ye on foot?”
Taylor saw Duncan hesitate a tiny fraction of a second, obviously not having made up the part of his story that would explain exactly how they had arrived here. But he recovered almost immediately and continued to weave his tale.
“We have no horse,” he said, attempting to mimic their host’s accent. “‘Twas taken from us by Cromwell’s men. Lucky we was t’ encounter a tinker who let us ride as far as Arbroath on the back of his wagon.”
Kenneth looked thoughtful. “‘Tis said th’ governor of th’ castle is in dire need of strong men,” he said at last. “I went out again last night and met with my friends in the village. We will ride for th’ castle early this morning t’ learn if this be true. We’ve decided ‘tis safer in the castle than in yon wild hills. Will ye ride with us, kinsman, if I can find ye a horse?”
“Aye,” Duncan replied without hesitation, and Taylor lost all hope that they might instead make their way to the Ladysgate and into their own time once again. She was feverish to return. It was, she’d decided fervently, far better to debunk a myth than to experience it.
Kenneth turned unexpectedly and surveyed Taylor from head to foot. “Kinsman, pray tell, why doth thy wife dress as a man?”
Taylor looked down at her jeans and started to protest, but Duncan replied quickly, his face suddenly fierce, as if he’d been affronted by the question. “Why, ye know as well as I, kinsman, what th’ English would do if they captured a woman. Would ye not protect thy wife by disguising her in like manner?”
Kenneth nodded, but added, “Hath she no woman’s clothing? She will be ill-received among th’ rest dressed like this.”
Duncan shook his head. “We escaped with our lives and naught else,” he said soberly. “All we have is what we are wearing.”
Taylor’s hysteria threatened to resurface at the absurdity of this little scene, but she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream at Duncan’s theatrics. But his statement was true. All they owned was upon their backs.
Their host looked at his wife. “Hath ye such as would fit her?”
Greta was several inches shorter and many pounds heavier than Taylor, but she nodded, although hesitantly. “Aye, husband. There is…your elder sister’s dress. I put it away in the chest when she died. She was tall, like this lass.”
Taylor raised her brows. A dead woman’s dress? This was too much. “I…I’m fine, really, I mean, you don’t need to make such a fuss…”
Kenneth approached her, a queer look on his face. “Thy speech is strange, kinswoman,” he said quietly. “Ye stand taller than th’ other women in th’ village, and thy hair is more golden than most and oddly styled. I fear ye’ll attract attention as an outlander. It could be dangerous for ye, and for us as well. Ye must,” he warned, “hold thy tongue.”
Taylor felt like retorting that she would do no such thing, but his tone of voice restrained her. She glared at him, but nodded reluctantly.
That understood between them, Kenneth turned to his wife. “We must hurry,” he said urgently. “Give Janet th’ clothing, then bundle together all that we can carry. Kinsman, cover thyself with this mantle, for thy clothing is not of our shire either.”
Shouts met their ears, and Kenneth opened the door. “We’re coming.” He motioned to Duncan to follow him.
As he passed Taylor, Duncan bent his head and pretended to kiss her, as a caring husband would his wife. Instead, he whispered into her ear. “Do anything you have to,” he warned, “but speak as little as possible, and under no circumstances give away our secret. It could get us killed.”
Duncan rode hard through the early morning mists alongside Kenneth Fraser and several other townsmen, quickly covering the short distance to Dunnottar Castle. He knew it was important for him to join in, to be a part of the activities until he could figure out a way to escape, but he was worried sick about leaving Taylor with Greta. Something about that woman made him uneasy.
Duncan was familiar with Dunnottar, for as a castle ruin, it was a popular tourist destination that attracted visitors from around the globe. In the mid-seventeenth century, however, it was still very much an active fortification, one of the most dependable strongholds on the coast, Kenneth had told
him. As a child in school, Duncan had been taught the story of Dunnottar’s most glorious moment in history…when it served as the hiding place of the Honours of Scotland, revered symbols of the independence of the Scottish people, and kept them from the destruction intended by Cromwell’s invaders.
Although nothing had been mentioned yet of the presence of the Honours at the castle, the timing was right, and incredibly, it appeared that he might be about to take part in that very history. The notion was staggering.
The riders raced along a path much farther inland than the road Duncan knew. He had expected they would ride along the coast which would have afforded him a glimpse of the Intrepid, hopefully by now floating free on the incoming tide. Somehow, he tried to assure himself, the boat would provide a means of rescue from this crazy time warp. If it had brought him through the Ladysgate into this time, it stood to reason it could make the passage in reverse, returning he and Taylor into their own time.
But at the moment, nothing stood to reason.
And until he could figure how to affect their escape, he had to keep his wits about him in this strange and primitive era. He’d vowed he would protect Taylor, and he intended to keep that pledge, no matter what.
Duncan learned from the clipped conversation between his fellow riders that they were on their way to meet with George Ogilvy, a man he had heard of only in history books. Ogilvy, he recalled, had been the governor who defended Dunnottar in the absence of the seventh Earl Marischal, who had spent the latter years of the civil war locked in the Tower of London. Duncan searched his mind for the details of the story, which was Stonehaven’s favorite legend, next to the Ladysgate, of course, but all he could remember was that somehow, with few men and low provisions, Ogilvy had staunchly defended the castle, his king, and the Honours of Scotland. But the particulars escaped him.
Guards at the castle gate scrambled to attention upon the arrival of their small party. “Halt!” cried a sentry who crossed his pike over the first entrance to the castle, almost at the foot of the castle rock. “Who goes there?”
“We hail from Stonehaven,” replied Kenneth, undaunted, “t’ learn if ‘tis true that th’ Earl Marischal has been arrested and taken away t’ London.”
The guard did not soften his stance. “What business is’t of yours?”
Kenneth dismounted. “We come as friends of George Ogilvy of Barras,” he said, stepping to within inches of the guard’s face. “We’ve heard ‘tis good strong men he needs t’ defend Dunnottar. Pray, admit us t’ see him.” He turned and indicated his band of men with a glance. “Ye can see he might need the likes of us when th’ bloody Roundheads come t’ fetch th’ Honours.”
“How know ye of th’ Honours?” the guard challenged immediately.
Kenneth laughed. “As Sheriff of Kincardinshire, ‘tis not much I do not know.”
“Sheriff?” The guard instantly dropped his challenge. “I beg pardon, sir. Yes, of course, Governor Ogilvy will be most anxious t’ see you.”
Duncan raised an eyebrow, surprised to find his rustic “kinsman” was an officer of the law. Dismounting with the rest of the men, he held tightly to the reins of his borrowed horse, as he’d been directed to by the others, guarding the animal carefully as they were led to the summit. One of the men had remarked earlier to Duncan that horses were almost more valuable than gold, as they were in demand by both the English and Scottish armies to replace those that were killed in the fighting, and by common folk as a means of escaping the fray. Duncan considered himself lucky to have been loaned one for this excursion.
George Ogilvy of Barras was of medium height, rather stocky, but his stance was proud and professional as he greeted his visitors. “‘Tis not many good Scots we have seen come prepared t’ defend this castle rock,” he said, shaking his head as if he could not comprehend why every loyal Scotsman in the neighborhood had not immediately rushed to the cause upon hearing of the events that were unfolding. “These are confusing times, however, with Royalists fighting Roundheads, Catholics fighting Covenanters, and Presbyterians fighting everyone.” He lifted his lips in a mirthless smile.
“And what are ye fightin’ for?” Kenneth asked him.
Ogilvy straightened and looked him directly in the eye. “Why, for king and castle, sir,” he said, almost indignantly.
“And for what lies within the castle?” Kenneth pressed.
Ogilvy scrutinized the local sheriff, assessing how much he knew. “Yes,” he said at last, “for what lies within th’ castle that was brought hither not long before th’ Earl Marischal was abducted by th’ scurrilous English.”
“So ‘tis true that th’ Earl has been captured then?” Kenneth continued.
“Aye,” Ogilvy replied morosely. “Just before they forced him t’ go t’ London, he managed t’ smuggle this t’ me,” he said, reaching into his deep coat pocket and producing a large, heavy key. “And with it, orders that I am t’ keep Dunnottar and all within safe until the English are defeated and King Charles II is restored t’ his rightful throne. That, good sir, is what I fight for.” Duncan saw the pride in his eyes, and he respected the honor and loyalty the man exhibited to his absent superior.
“We stand ready to defend th’ castle and th’ Honours,” Kenneth came to the point at last, “with th’ condition that our families may join us behind th’ castle walls.”
Ogilvy looked worried. “There is a problem with provisions,” he said. “And ammunition. I dinna ken th’ slowness of the General Commissary. Six hundred bolls of meal was t’ have been delivered here already, but I’ve received less than half that. I suspect,” he scowled, “th’ rest can be bought on th’ streets of Aberdeen.”
Kenneth turned to his men. “Ye ken th’ conditions here. Wish ye still t’ bring thy women and bairns into th’ castle for what will likely be a long siege with low provisions over th’ winter, and there bein’ no guarantees any of us will come out alive?”
It didn’t sound like much of an offer to Duncan, but he had decided if he and Taylor couldn’t make an escape through the Ladysgate, then they would go with whatever decision his “kinsman” Kenneth made. But Olgivy’s option must have sounded more hopeful to the rest, who agreed to the man to bring their families to the castle.
“‘Tis likely th’ English will raid our homes and kill our cattle and sheep,” said one. “Here at Dunnottar, more provisions may or may not be forthcoming, but we ken well what will happen t’ our families if left without shelter t’ forage on the moors for th’ winter.”
“Aye,” the rest of them agreed.
Ogilvy nodded grimly. “Bring ye thy wives and bairns then,” he said, “but also thy chickens and livestock and all thy food, as we will need every sustenance available to us.” Then abruptly he bowed his head in prayer. “God grant us His grace and mercy. God protect and defend us. God smite our enemies and return unto us our anointed King. Amen.”
“Amen.”
Needing a visual tool to help him through the historical details of the translation, Robert Gordon laid out a time line on a legal pad. He made note of the diary dates, then compared them to the accounts of the same events recorded in the history book.
They matched in every instance.
If this diary wasn’t authentic, the forger had had a detailed knowledge of the Queen’s life. His pulse quickened. He should call in John Doggett right away, for he knew him to be the most knowledgeable, if not always the most scrupulous, antiquarian in the area. If Doggett determined this was the real diary of Mary Queen of Scots, it would be the most monumental documents ever to have emerged from the shrouds of history. More important even than the famous Casket Letters.
And more valuable.
Perhaps he should call Doggett immediately.
But no. Gordon could not resist finishing the translation first.
Holyrood Palace
5 September 1565
Elizabeth has withdrawn her blessing of our marriage to Darnley. Our nobles hate our choice of husb
and. But we are hurt most by the treacherous betrayal of our brother. James is perhaps the greediest of all, we can see clearly now. Not content with the wealth and power we bestowed upon him in awarding him the Earldom of Moray, he has rebelled against us now, taking to his side Châtelherault and Argyll, once our powerful allies, now our dangerous enemies. Moray claims that our marriage to Henry Darnley poses a threat to the Protestant religion in Scotland, but his motives are far less noble, we are certain. For until our marriage, he enjoyed the greatest power in the land next to ourself, and now he cannot abide that his power has been usurped by our husband. It would be easy to hate our brother.
We have taken steps to crush his rebellion. We have put him to the horn for treason, as he has refused to appear before us and explain his churlish behavior, in despight of our assurance of safe conduct for him and eighty of his legion. We have outlawed Châtelherault and Argyll as well, and seized the properties of Moray, Rothes and Kirkcaldy.
We stand ready to march against the rebels if necessary, but have not enough resources to carry forth this campaign with any great expectation of victory. We have pledged certain of our jewels, among them two of the rubies from the Scottish Rose, to raise the funds that we need, and we have sent an urgent plea of our Holy Father to aid us in this cause. We regret having to profane the chalice, but our brother’s actions leave us no choice.
Our heart is heavy, and we vacillate between anger and despair. We sought only peace and the companionship of a loving husband, but we have instead stirred the hornets in their nest, and truth be told, in our own nest we are finding little of the harmony and marital bliss that prompted us to marry Darnley in the first place. Still, we stand resolute to our decision. We are the annointed Queen of Scotland, and we shall bend our subjects to our will, if they will not see it on their own.