Parris Afton Bonds

by The Captive

  Her teeth gritted. "I don’t want his head, I want my daughter safe!"

  "My wife is my personal property, and I protect what is mine. For that reason, if not because it is my sworn duty, I shall take great delight in exterminating another clan from the face of Scotland."

  His utterly boyish smile was chilling. Actually, Simon Murdock was deemed handsome by many. A trim physique, short-lashed gray eyes, hair as black as hers once had been, which he wore unpowdered and fully curled—these physical qualities attested to some of the reasons the man was celebrated in London’s salons.

  It was that other quality, eliciting warranted regard in London’s political circles, that bothered her. The quality of the man was one she sensed as a negative aura rather than identified through any specific deed, though Simon Murdock was legendary for his absolute political and military conquests.

  Two years earlier he had led troops of the East India Company in defeating the more numerous Indian forces, whose religion forbade them to eat pork. To illustrate the fate of those who opposed the English, he had ordered the blood of pigs poured into the mouths of all Indian soldiers taken alive. Their drownings had been made all the more effective by the manner.

  His political victories were equally absolute. Returning home, he had campaigned for a seat in parliament and won by default of the incumbent. The man had chosen suicide by hanging rather than face exposure of his unsavory lifestyle. The source of the incriminating evidence leaked to the London newspapers was attributed to Simon Murdock. His reply had made even the Edinburgh Times: "My opponent was an expression of stupidity and cowardice."

  Appointed the year before as Lord Lieutenant of the Western Highlands, Murdock had been brutally thorough in his efforts to subdue rebel Highlanders. His effective, however merciless, measures had elicited acclaim from the king himself.

  Reluctantly, she had given in to Malcolm’s insistence that she grant Murdock’s request, by an envoy-delivered letter, for Enya’s hand in marriage. After all, she herself had found a measure of contentment as a warrior’s wife, decidedly not a role she would have chosen.

  On the surface, the marriage between Murdock and Enya appeared a good match. Certainly, Kathryn could understand Malcolm’s preference for a man with army experience and empathize with his desire to see his daughter’s future settled before his death.

  She couldn’t resist the urge to prick Murdock’s pride, when, in truth, she was all for the defeat of the Highland rebels, and for good reason. Some clansmen had given monetary and manpower support for feudal reasons; others, Episcopalians and Roman Catholics, for religious reasons. A few took up arms because they believed in rebellion for political reasons. Mostly, it was for economical ones. The Highlanders saw the prince’s campaign as a chance to revive on a grand scale the traditional rape of the Lowlands. “’Tis been five years, and the Highlanders are still rebelling, Lord Murdock."

  “I leave tomorrow for Fort William. It may have been five years since I last served in the Highlands, but once there, I shall smoke out all clan chieftains harboring secret sympathies for Jacobites. Neighborhood locals can be all too free with the secrets of these people when encouraged with reward or drink. I assure you, it will not take long to find the particular rebel I seek."

  With foreboding, she watched him depart. If Enya was still alive, he would get her back; of that there was no doubt. Murdock never failed. Yet, instinct told Kathryn that he would not suffer a tainted wife. Pride would demand that, if he so chose, he be the one to rid himself of his wife, not this Highland rebel.

  Kathryn who had espoused peace and enlightenment during her rule in Malcolm’s stead, had no soldiers to call upon in her time of need.

  She turned to the only one who might be able to help her.

  Brother Archibald saw Kathryn coming long before she spotted him. He set down on the rocky outcrop the quill he sharpened, along with his knife, and waited for her.

  He had been waiting for her, it seemed, forever. Since the day she arrived, at age thirteen, at the baronial castle of Malcolm Afton. He himself had been not much older, a mere laddie at fifteen. The rest of his life was ever after changed. From being the son of a fisherman, he had hoped to become a fisherman of men.

  But that was much later. After the dark night of his soul.

  He rose, standing tall above her. The wind, warmed by the Gulf Stream, whipped the hem of her concealing cloak around his trousered legs.

  The color on her cheeks was high. Because of the warm afternoon or this meeting?

  In his mind’s eye, she was still a lass of sixteen, her hair spread across the stable straw like a jeweler’s black velvet backdrop.

  Her dark blue eyes reflected the sunlight sparkling off the water. Yet, deep in them he saw a storm. "Aye, Kathryn?”

  "You got my message then." It was a statement of relief rather than a question.

  "A tinker brought it."

  She sighed. “I never know where to find you or when you’ll come."

  He took her hand, slender and slightly veined. “Something is amiss. What is it?"

  ‘"Tis Enya.”

  His heart seemed to lurch in his chest. "Let’s walk." He collected his quill and knife—and collected his wits. Taking Kathryn’s elbow, he turned their steps toward the burn below that emptied into the sea. He asked gently, "What has happened?”

  Her eyes shimmered, her normally serene voice trembled. "She was abducted on her way to Fort William. Less than twenty-four hours after she left Afton House and her wedding reception."

  His hand tightened over her entwined ones. "Do you know who did it?"

  She shook her head, and wisps of her bound hair, silver-streaked, tumbled from the hood of her cloak. "No. I mean, aye. Some Highland rebel. Simon Murdock was here the day before yesterday. He doesn’t know the full details yet, but says she is apparently being held hostage. He means to go after her."

  He turned his face out to the Firth of Clyde. Its salty spray invigorated him. "The odds of defeating the Scottish rebels are on Murdock’s side."

  "Aye, but how long will that take, Arch? And, in the meantime, what will have happened to Enya?"

  Seeing Kathryn’s shudder, he didn’t have to imagine what was on her mind. The same was on his. What kind and how much torture might Enya have to endure? Murdock cared not a whit. Other than to salvage his pride, his main objective was to defeat the remaining Highlanders still in rebellion against British dominion a full five years after the Scottish defeat at the Battle of Culloden.

  He squeezed Kathryn's hands with a reassurance he did not quite feel. He sometimes felt her unswerving faith in him was misplaced. "I have contacts. I’ll return the day after tomorrow with the full story. When we know all there is to know, then we can plan accordingly."

  The relief in her fair face was worth all those lonely nights of his adult life. Now the burden had shifted to him; so, after leaving Kathryn at the banks of the sluggish burn, he prepared for another journey. His destination was the trackless wilds of Midlothian and Rosslyn Chapel, the underground headquarters of the Knights Templar.

  A contingent of Knights Templars had allegedly fought on Robert Bruce's side at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, in which Bruce defeated the English. Because the papal bull dissolving the Templars was never proclaimed in Scotland, the order of warrior-monks was never officially suppressed here.

  The order began a clandestine existence, gradually secularizing itself and becoming associated with both the Scottish Rite Freemasons and the prevailing clan system. Indirectly, it had worked to support the cause of Bonnie Prince Charlie in '45.

  After a hard ride that took all night and part of the next morning, Arch arrived exhausted at Rosslyn Chapel. Visitors to the site were not uncommon. The chapel was famous for the quality and variety of stone carving inside. Also inside was a secret passage known only to a select few.

  In the guise of a wine merchant, Arch entered the chapel, dimly lit by wall sconces and sputtering candles at the
altar. A few pilgrims either sat on the scarred benches or tiptoed around the circumference of the walls to better view the carvings. For a moment he idled, enjoying the coolness the interior afforded a tired and perspiring traveler.

  A little-used staircase off one alcove descended to a wine cellar below. Unobtrusively, he went down its narrow, dank steps. Someone moved in the room, damp and chill, with mold growing on its walls.

  Wary, he paused. A wayfarer, an artist by his pad and charcoal, wandered among the wine cellar’s empty casks. Arch peered at the pad and ascertained that the young man had, indeed, been sketching. The drawing was of the cellar’s high, vaulted stone roof.

  Arch strolled forward. "G’day. Spooky place, isn’t it?”

  The young man nodded. "That it is.”

  "Anything left for our refreshment?”

  "Not a drop,” the artist said. "The English swigged it all.” Soon thereafter, he took his leave.

  Arch had to smile. The artist’s eye was not that observant or he would have noted that the cellar’s cobwebs did not adorn all the oak casks. At the back of the catacomb-like cellar, one large vat in particular showed no trace of dust.

  By simply pulling on what appeared to be a spigot, he swung open the vat’s end to reveal a tunnel, lit by a sconce at the far end. Pins in well-greased hinges turned noiselessly as he closed the portal behind him. The cellar’s stone floor ended here, and the tunnel’s hard-packed dirt softened his footsteps. Just beyond the sconce, the tunnel veered and terminated with another door. Without knocking, he entered.

  A bearded man wearing the Knights Templars’ white robe with splayed red cross was perched on a stool before a counter. On it, the vials, flasks, mortars, and pestals indicated this anteroom also served as an alchemical laboratory. The man turned, head canted, and asked, "Archibald Armstrong?”

  “You remember. Tis been almost fourteen years.”

  The owl-like eyes twinkled. “How could I forget someone who not only bested me at claymores but made me look like a laddie in the bargain?"

  Arch smiled. He, too, remembered. Remembered not only Bernard, but the man’s eccentric uncle, Isaac Newton, who had performed some of his clandestine research in this very laboratory. “I need help, Bernard. Information.”

  The Knight Templar nodded. “About Lady Enya?”

  "Then word is already out?" He took a seat on another stool, which the Knight indicated. "Aye. Do you know who is holding her hostage?”

  The Templar laid aside the beaker he held and wiped his hands on a cloth. "Reivers, no less. The fiercest of the raiders, in this case— Ranald’s Reivers."

  "Where can I find these reivers?"

  “Their leader, Ranald Kincairn, is of the Clan Cameron. Red Castle near Ballengarno used to be the power base of the Camerons. The Earls of Atholl of the Cameron branch could trace their clan back to the sacred origins of St. Columba and the royal house of Fife.

  "These days, Ranald Kincairn abandons one base for another. He had the English troops quartered at Fort William chasing their tails. Murdock’s arrival has changed all that."

  Arch rubbed his chin. "Does anyone know where their present base is?"

  "Some say the Trossack area. That is Gaelic for bristly country. Which should hint at how difficult your search will be.” The Templar’s owlish eyes hooded over in a secretive look. "Seek out first the keeper of the Templar graveyard in Argyll.”

  Arch knew he could learn no more. He thanked Bernard and left. He still had a return journey of fourteen hours of hard riding before him. Kathryn would want to know the news as soon as possible.

  He reached Afton House just after four o’clock the following morning. The sky was still dark, without a hint of moon. His horse’s flanks were steaming, his own labored breath frosty in the crisp early-morning air. Kathryn was still up. Her light shone in her bedroom on the second floor.

  She could wait ’til sun-up, he reasoned. Nothing could be accomplished before then anyway. He cantered on to the stables. After unsaddling his weary horse he sought out a bed of straw, which was better than he often got.

  When he awoke Kathryn was kneeling over him. For a moment he thought he was back again twenty-five years. His arms raised to embrace her. Then he recollected where he was, who he was. Instead, he pushed himself upright. “What time is it?”

  "Just before matins. One of the stable boys found you. What news have you?”

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. God, he ached all over. He was too old to be chasing around the countryside. He should have taken his vows to his order long ago, changed his vocation from brother to priest, and then taken his carcass out of Scotland for good.

  “Enya is being held by Ranald Kincairn, acting chief of the Camerons.”

  “Do you ken where?”

  He shook his head. “No."

  Kathryn rose and began pacing before him. The hem of her skirts swished the dirt and straw. Dust particles filtered up in the shafts of early-morning sunlight. The odor of horse manure was powerful, and he realized he had fallen asleep with one elbow in a pile of it. "God’s blood, but I smell rank!”

  "I can be ready to ride by dawn tomorrow.”

  "What?" He bolted to his feet and hit his head on the stall’s low lintel.

  She halted, stared at him, and wrinkled her nose. "A bath wouldn’t hurt you either before we leave.”

  Rubbing her palms together, she resumed pacing. “Malcolm mustn’t ken of this. I’ll tell him I am going to Edinburgh. That’s it. I’ll tell him Allan Ramsay wants to paint my portrait, and I’ll need to stay a fortnight. Alistair is capable enough to run Afton House and care for Malcolm until I return.”

  "You’re not going with me, Kathryn.”

  She whirled on him. "Enya is me daughter, too.”

  He took her hands in his. "Not only would you slow me down, but I would accomplish more without you. People don’t question a scribe traveling on the back roads. A fine lady they would." "I don’t have to go as a fine lady.”

  His lips curled in a scoff. "You wouldn’t know how to go as anything else. A life of nobility is all you’ve ever known. You’d slip up and betray us in less than an hour. We can’t afford to alert this Ranald. He’s expecting Murdock. But not me.”

  She put her hands on her hips, still slender even after childbirth and middle age. His mind’s eye saw her again in that pose—a fetching lass who had often challenged him. "I can go places and get information that even a man can’t, Arch.”

  “Like where?"

  She raised a brow. "Think about it."

  He could feel his big ears turning red with heat. "You’d go to the Highlands even if I said I wouldn’t take you, wouldn’t you?”

  Her smile was gentle, guileless, serene, and noble. "A repentant prostitute on pilgrimage is an excellent disguise, don’t you agree?"

  Chapter Five

  The reivers were eating haggis and neeps, jesting and quarreling and enjoying the comradely pleasures of the great hall. They conversed in that strange Gaelic language. Although there had to be more than fifty men tonight, more than usual, Enya knew at once which one was Ranald Kincairn before he even took up the bagpipe.

  Her mother would claim she was daft, but Enya didn’t know how else to explain her knowledge of the man, other than to describe it as second sight, like dreams or visions that Elspeth said some of the auld folk had.

  From that distance, Enya could not really say the man was handsome. Rather ordinary, in fact, if she discounted his size.

  The tall, brawny man left his place at the head table to play the pipes for Ian Cameron. A collie that had been moping in the castle now perked up and padded behind the big man, who had taken up a hide-bound chair a short distance from her place at the end of the table. Unlike his kilted uncle and cousin, the appointed laird of the Cameron clan wore a hunting shirt and trousers of deerskin so worn and stained that the leather shined.

  In the five days she had been held captive at Lochaber Castle, she had learned throu
gh questioning Jamie that Ranald Kincairn had come and gone and come again, like a will-o’-the-wisp. Clearly, he was in no hurry to carry out his expressed intentions in regard to her.

  '"Tis a ceilidh tonight," Jamie said at her side.

  "A what?" The wild-sounding, hard-to-pronounce Gaelic words spoken by Highlanders confounded her. Like Eidiann for Edinburgh and Glaschu for Glasgow. Gaelic was a completely separate tongue, with its own unique vocabulary and grammar, as different from English as were Greek or Polish.

  "A ceilidh is a Highland-style evening of music, dance, and drinking. The villagers will find any excuse for a ceilidh."

  "What is the celebration?” In all the time she had been at Lochaber, the days and evenings had passed in monotonous isolation. Tonight was the first time she had been allowed to leave her room, although she had been permitted the services of Elspeth and Mary Laurie.

  She realized she had taken for granted the dancing classes, literary correspondences, debates, and flirtations that had enlivened her life at Afton House.

  Jamie’s dancing blue eyes didn't meet her own. "We are celebrating a victory of sorts. Ranald’s men trounced a small English search party.”

  Her pewter tankard of ale stopped midway to her mouth, but the sudden wail of the bagpipe postponed her obvious question.

  There was a quality to this music unlike any of her Lowland childhood experience. Until the English banned the bagpipe as a weapon of war because it had led the clans to battle at Culloden, many Lowland towns had employed a town piper. An honored citizen with a special uniform, the town piper’s duty had been to pipe the town awake in the morning and pipe it to sleep at night.

  This was no simple tune. It opened with a theme that developed over a sequence of variations into an eerie musical scheme of soulful depth. This music, once heard, was not to be forgotten. The instrument’s piercing, haunting tone emerged from the sound of the drones like a needle sewing silver thread through coarse linen.

  She shivered. Her gaze scrutinized with aroused interest the man responsible—for both the music and her captivity.