by Amanda Scott
Rob had also accompanied him to Leith Harbor to see if any of the many ships harbored there might answer Giff’s requirements and be available for purchase or hire. Rob assured him that cost was not a consideration, and although they had certainly not seen all of them, Giff had seen more than one that might do.
Even so, without knowing his cargo, he felt ill prepared to judge their merits with any degree of certainty. As a result, the two had set out late the previous afternoon for Roslin, learning upon their arrival that Hugo had set guards all along the river gorge to deter unwanted visitors until Isabella had made her departure.
“’Tis as good an excuse as we’ll find to post so many guards,” Hugo said. “With Fife in town, as he is, we haven’t seen much of his men lately, anyway, but I’ve heard he means to travel north soon, doubtless to annoy Henry.”
“As long as he stays out of my way as I sail to the west, I’ll see that as a good thing,” Rob said.
“Aye,” Hugo agreed. “But you’ll want to keep an eye out for him as you go. And if that fine new ship of his is sitting in Sinclair Bay when you get there, you’re to go straight on without stopping at Girnigoe.”
“Is Fife’s new ship harbored at Leith?” Giff asked. “What is it like?”
Hugo shrugged. “’Tis something of a mixture of galley and merchantman. Doubtless it is not much good as either—or so we may hope if you run into it.”
“Aye,” Giff said. “I’d prefer a swift western galley, myself, but as our cargo is unlikely to be small enough to be easily concealed—”
“You’ll soon be able to judge for yourself what you’ll need,” Hugo said.
Thus did he find himself midway through Saturday morning, standing with Hugo and Rob before a tall rock slab in a heavily wooded wedge-shaped glen of the sort that Borderers called a cleuch.
Without a word, Rob slid a hand down the near edge of the slab, lingered at the bottom for a moment, then stood, grabbed the edge with both hands, and pulled.
The slab moved, revealing an opening large enough for a man to stand in.
“This way,” Rob said as Hugo handed him a lighted torch and turned to ease the huge rock slab shut behind them.
Accustomed to the open sea, Giff strongly disliked enclosed places. But as daylight disappeared, leaving only the flickering torch, rampant curiosity overcame his discomfort as he and Hugo followed Rob along the passageway.
It twisted and turned. The torch flickered wildly as Rob strode, and Giff realized that the ground beneath them was unusually flat and free of obstacles.
Rob’s broad shoulders blocked most of the view ahead, but he stopped at last, held the torch higher, and said, “There, Giff, just yonder.”
Realizing the passage had opened to a wider chamber, Giff moved to stand beside him. A chill touched him as he looked in awe at the object Rob indicated.
“Bless my soul,” he murmured.
Chapter 6
Giff felt instinctively if not yet logically that he was staring at Lia Fail, Scotland’s true Coronation Stone.
For one thing, it looked important. It was dark in color, of polished black marble or basalt, and it stood as high as his knees. A foot and a half deep, nearly a yard wide, skillfully carved and gilded, with designs that gleamed eerily in the torchlight, the main block rested on feet that resembled an eagle’s talons, but the front corners looked more like legs of a reptile, mayhap those of a lizard.
“Looks devilish heavy,” he said, bending to touch it. At the last minute, he hesitated, but when neither Hugo nor Rob objected, he caught hold of an edge with both hands and tried to shift it. “Faith, it weighs a ton.”
“Less than a quarter ton, I’d wager,” Rob said. “I’m thinking six men can carry it out of here. If those pairs of crook-shaped hooks fixed to each side are as sturdy as they look, they’ll easily accommodate two stout poles for transport.”
“We’ve had some cut for the purpose,” Hugo said.
“You’re certain it’s the true Stone of Destiny, then,” Giff said, squatting for a closer look. With few doubts now of its authenticity, he stroked the smooth stone, fingering what looked like a footprint carved on the seat, imagining ancient kings about to be crowned, admiring it with much the same sense of awe as he felt.
“Henry said it looks like the Stone depicted in wax seals on ancient charters,” Hugo said. “Later ones show a taller throne with the king’s feet on a stool. Henry said that’s how it must have looked when they began to set the Stone under the chair. He thinks Edward carted off the wrong one only because folks hadn’t seen the real one for years. Also, Rob and I heard the tale of its rescue from one we ken fine we can trust.”
Still squatting on his heels, Giff said, “Are you going to tell me who it was?”
He had assumed that Hugo would take the lead in everything to do with the Stone, but it was Rob who said, “You’ll agree to undertake the job?”
“I will,” Giff said. Sakes, he would fight anyone who tried to stop him. “I can do it,” he added. “I don’t know anyone I’d trust more to protect it.”
“Then I expect he should know as much as we can tell him,” Rob said to Hugo. “He’ll be risking his life, after all, as well as the Stone.”
“’Tis your right to decide how much we tell him,” Hugo said. “You’re the lad who loves secrets and thus the least likely to reveal too much.”
Turning back to Giff, Rob said, “The Abbot of Holyrood told me that when news reached Scone Abbey in 1296 that Edward of England meant to take the Stone to England, the Abbot of Scone applied to the Abbot of Holyrood, who at that time was a priest from Lestalric. He agreed to keep the Stone safe if they could deliver it to him before Edward reached Lothian. Holyrood’s present abbot served as baillie to our man when England’s third Edward threatened Scotland again in 1329. The two priests went to the Bruce, told him of the Stone’s presence at Holyrood, and asked him what they should do. The English had already sacked Melrose Abbey, and everyone believed they’d do the same to Holyrood, so Bruce recommended that they confide their problem to a pair of his closest comrades who were Templars.”
“If Lestalric contributed the abbot, may one be forgiven for asking if one or both of those men enjoyed a similar connection to your branch of the family?”
With visible reluctance, Rob said, “Aye, my great grandfather, Sir Robert Logan. He was one of those who attempted to carry Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land after he died, and died on the way himself. However, he’d passed the details to his son—my grandfather—before he left, and my grandfather passed them on to me.”
Giff frowned before saying evenly, “Two other great names are associated with that same mission, others who also died in Spain.”
“Aye, the good Sir James Douglas and Sir William Sinclair.”
“I won’t ask who the other confidant was, for I suspect it is not your secret to tell, but I trust you will forgive me if I make a guess,” Giff said.
“The important thing now is to move the Stone beyond Fife’s reach.”
“Since he suspects the Sinclairs and is already plotting to annoy Henry, I’m thinking you don’t want me to take it to Girnigoe or Orkney, so where do you imagine it will be safe? The only man I can think of who is powerful enough to keep it out of Fife’s hands is the Lord of the Isles.”
“Nay, it must not go to Donald,” Hugo said.
“Where, then?”
“To a man known for his trustworthiness, who is also a member of the Order,” Hugo said. “You will take the Stone to Ranald of the Isles.”
Giff frowned. “I ken fine that Ranald enjoys such a reputation, but you must know that Ranald’s loyalty is to his younger half brother. He supported Donald’s claim to become second Lord of the Isles when nearly every chief in the Lordship wanted Ranald to claim it for himself.”
“He supported Donald because his father willed it so,” Hugo said. “But Donald is not a member of our Order. Moreover, he is grandson to the King of Scots and Fife�
�s nephew. The first Lord of the Isles knew of our Order and its purpose. He supported both and strongly recommended against telling Donald, claiming it was not right to burden him with a secret he might feel bound to share with his maternal grandfather. Ranald’s mother being a Macruari rather than a Stewart, Ranald does not share that connection to the King or to Fife.”
“We can discuss this more when Michael returns,” Rob said. “He went to Eigg a fortnight ago to talk to Ranald. But I think we should go now, for I don’t like lingering here. Someone may see our lads at the opening of the cleuch and wonder if they are really just fishing.”
“Have you seen enough, Giff?” Hugo asked.
“Aye,” Giff said. “Do you have a plan for getting it out of the gorge?”
“We have several plans, depending on when you can sail. What we need to know is if you anticipate any difficulty loading it onto a ship.”
“If you can get it to the ship without a tail of Fife’s lads following you, I can get it loaded,” Giff said. “I’m thinking we’ll want a harbor other than Leith, though, especially if Fife’s ship is still harbored there when we’re ready to move.”
“We’ll have a better idea about all that when we find a ship and hear what Michael learns from Ranald,” Rob said, clearly impatient to be out of the cavern.
They went back the way they had come, replacing the stone slab and brushing dirt and leaves in front of its base to conceal its presence.
Returning along the narrow creek bed that had brought them to the head of the cleuch, they emerged into the river gorge, where the men Hugo had set to watch for trouble put away their fishing gear and mounted their horses.
“Any sign of visitors?” Rob asked them as he swung himself onto his saddle.
“None, my lord,” their leader replied. “Leastways, none o’ the sort ye’ll be meaning. Just one o’ their young ladyships riding along the ridge.”
“Sakes,” Giff said. “How could you tell from here who it was?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but our lads be a-watching the track and wouldna let any other lass through. Ye can see her for yourself, though, yonder.” The man pointed.
From where they were on the west bank of the turbulent North Esk, Giff could see the rider nearing Hawthornden Castle from the north on the high, sheer cliff across the river. His distance vision was excellent, and he easily recognized her.
When Hugo uttered a curse, Rob said, “Surely, that is not Sorcha?”
“Nay, she’s at Roslin,” Hugo said. “But that lass rides on a man’s saddle, as they do, so it is Sidony. What the devil is she doing, riding all this way by herself?”
“Likely, she meant to visit you and Sorcha at Hawthornden,” Rob said. “When she learns that neither of you is there, she’ll ride on to Roslin.”
“If my steward lets her leave without adding more men to her escort, I’ll have things to say to him that he won’t want to hear,” Hugo growled. “Let’s go.”
Giff was watching the rider, who rode as well as any man he had ever watched on a horse. Turning her head just then, she looked down at them and seemed to check briefly before riding on. Having met Lady Isobel at Clendenen House, Rob’s lady at Lestalric, and Hugo’s at Hawthornden the previous evening, he knew that at least three of her sisters were very like her in appearance.
Nonetheless, he recognized Sidony easily.
Noting that the other two had mounted, he did so quickly and followed them, wondering what Hugo meant to do. But by the time they reached Roslin, he realized that Hugo’s duties there would prevent his leaving for at least another hour.
As the others dismounted, Giff said casually, “As we’ve still hours left of daylight, I think I’ll head back now. The sooner I can find a ship, the better.”
Rob favored him with a look of sleepy amusement, but Hugo already had his mind on duties that lay ahead of him, for he said only, “’Tis a good notion. We can discuss all the other details more sensibly once we’ve assured transport.”
Giff left them at once, crossing the narrow land bridge that separated Roslin from the hillside and ridgetop to the east.
The north River Esk flowed in a sharp curve nearly all the way around the base of Roslin Castle’s high promontory, so that to reach its west bank, one rode down the steep slope to the arched stone bridge that crossed it. To follow the river’s east bank, one used the higher, more-traveled track along the eastern ridgetop.
Giff chose that route and urged his mount to speed.
Sidony had seen the men down in the river gorge and had easily recognized Hugo and Rob—and Giff MacLennan—by the way each moved. She had checked at the sight of Hugo, but her curiosity stirred, especially as it had seemed at first as if the three had stepped forth from the very wall of the gorge.
To be sure, there was dense shrubbery, an astonishing number of trees, a dip in the clifftop, and a burn spilling across the track into the river North Esk, so one could easily imagine the existence of a wee glen or cut there, or even a waterfall.
Discovering at Hawthornden that Sorcha was indeed spending the day at Roslin, she declined the steward’s invitation to await her return. Asked if she meant to ride on to Roslin but having no wish to cast herself in Hugo’s path, she said lightly that she would come again another day.
“Sithee, I wanted an excuse to give my pony some good exercise, but I promised the lady Isobel I would return to Sinclair House by suppertime.”
“Aye, sure, my lady. I’ll just fetch a few of our men to ride back with you.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need them,” she said. “I have my own.”
The steward eyed the two young gillies askance. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but you should have an escort more suited to your consequence. Sir Hugo would be gey wroth wi’ me an I let you go with just that callow pair.”
Biting her lip, Sidony stayed at the gate until the steward disappeared into the stable against the inside north wall. But as soon as he was out of sight, she said, “We’ll go now. If he wants to send men after us, he will do so, but I have no intention of sitting here whilst they all saddle their horses.”
The two lads glanced at each other but made no objection, which pleased her. This new sense of freedom was heady, and she decided that she approved of people who did exactly as she bade them.
She knew Hugo had seen her. Faith, all three men had seen her, but until she had spoken to the steward, she had indulged in the hope that Hugo might think she was Sorcha and voice no objection to her riding on the ridge track. Knowing now that he would think nothing of the sort, she wanted to return to town with all speed.
Urging her mount to a brisk pace, she maintained it until the slope of the track began steeply to descend. Then, aware that all three horses were tired, she slowed, noting as she did that her two companions looked relieved.
A moment later, one of them said, “Beg pardon, m’lady, but there be riders coming up quick ahind us. I reckon they’ll be the lot from Hawthornden.”
Affecting an air of indifference that she did not feel, she said, “They may come with us if they like. I have naught to say about what they do or do not do.”
It took every grain of resolution, however, not to look over her shoulder, although she knew that no Hawthornden man-at-arms would dare to scold her. And thanks to Isabella’s still being at Roslin, Hugo would not be with them.
Even if he had ignored Isabella’s presence, Sidony told herself, he could not have ridden to Roslin and on to Hawthornden in time to join the riders behind her. Nor would he come after her to order her home when she was going anyway. But her ride from town had taken over two hours, and it would take as long to return. So if he did come after her, he could still catch her before she reached Sinclair House.
She could hear hoofbeats behind her now, and continuing to face forward became more difficult, but she did not want the men following to think she feared them. She was a Macleod of Glenelg, doing what she wanted to do, and they had no right to stop her.
She had simply taken exercise, had chosen to ride outside of the royal burgh, with an escort, on a road she knew well, in sight of other travelers. To be sure, there were none on the track along the river, but it was Sinclair land. She was quite safe.
“How close are they?” she asked the nearest gillie minutes later when the hoofbeats seemed no nearer.
“They’ve slowed, your ladyship. I’m thinking they mean to hang back.”
“We’ll see, shall we? Let us slow down a little and see what they do.”
The riders behind slowed as well, and thus reassured, she reined her mount to a walk, to rest it again. If Hugo was coming, he would come, and if he wanted to scold her again, he would do it whether she was on the road when he found her or at Sinclair House. Another scolding was nothing to make a song about.
With that realization, the sense of freedom she had enjoyed earlier renewed itself. Really, it was quite easy when one knew how to manage one’s thoughts.
She indulged that satisfying assumption for some twenty minutes before a familiar, curt voice much too close to her abruptly disabused her of it.
Having paused at Hawthornden only long enough to learn that the lady Sidony, upon discovering that her sister was not at home, had turned round and headed back to town, Giff had pressed on. He was not as interested in the steward’s rambling disapproval of her ladyship’s personal escort as he was in learning what had stirred her to make such a journey in the first place.
Clearly, she had not come to warn of some calamity at Sinclair House. Hugo had not even considered that possibility, and rightly so. Lady Sidony would not have been the messenger to carry such news. A lad riding the fastest horse the Sinclair House stable could produce would have carried it.
As he rode, he found himself wondering about his increasing interest in the lass. Little more than impulse had sent him careering after her, but it was an obvious opportunity to learn more about her. That furthering their acquaintance would irk Hugo provided some added incentive. That by pursuing her now he might enjoy a full hour’s private converse with her, provided more.