by Robin Paige
“If it’s true,” Charles said somberly, “I pity him. Born to be king, but knowing he didn’t have it in him. And being pushed to do something he couldn’t do—”
“Being forced to marry a woman he didn’t love,” Kate put in. “By the Queen, whose only concern was to preserve the Royal dynasty.”
Swept by a powerful surge of feeling, Charles tipped up her face. “Yes, I pity him,” he said. “I pity any man who cannot have what he wants. Who cannot have what you and I share.” He paused. He felt better now, much better, but perhaps she wasn’t yet satisfied. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a sense of grave misgiving: how would she feel about him now that she knew his secret, the secret that he had kept from her so long? Half-fearing to hear her reply, he said, “Have I answered your questions, Kate? Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
She touched his lips with her finger and smiled, loving, teasing, playful, a smile that eased and delighted his heart. “Does my hero want me?” she whispered.
And once again, there was no more talking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
“Songs of Travel and Other Verses” Robert Louis Stevenson
The darkness was not absolute, for the moon, dim and pale, shone a flickering light through the window, and there was still a glow from the fire that had done little to warm the chilly room. Long after Charles had gone to sleep, his hand gently cupping her bare breast, Kate lay awake, thinking of all he had told her, shivering at the thought of how near he had come to death and wondering at the way he had held his feelings within himself all these years.
She could understand his resentment at being made into a hero when he himself doubted his heroism—doubted, even, the idea of heroism itself, when men like Gordon could sacrifice thousands of soldiers and civilians on the altar of self-aggrandizement and absurd dreams of glory. She could understand, as well, Charles’s grief at the loss of his men: over fifteen years had gone by since Abu Fahr, but the anguish could still be heard in his voice when he spoke of the young sergeant who had been surprised by death. He was not the sort of Army officer to insist on the prerogatives of birth and breeding; he knew that the distinctions between classes were paper-thin, and would never have held himself above his men. No wonder they had followed him so willingly down the hill and into the terror of battle—and no wonder he blamed himself for their loss. But she could not understand why men kept such terrible secrets to themselves and refused to talk of the things that troubled them. A question suddenly occurred to her: would she and Beryl ever dare to put this tale into one of their stories? She had her doubts, but Beryl was incorrigible. Smiling, Kate put her hand over Charles’s and held it as she fell asleep.
Kate woke abruptly as the great clock at the top of the tower struck twice, the sounds shivering eerily into silence. She had been dreaming of her conversation in the tea pantry that afternoon with Gladys. In her dream, the girl repeated several times what she had said earlier: that she had seen Flora carrying a large tea tray, heavily laden, going in the direction of the old part of the castle. “That part’s haunted,” Gladys said, giving her coppery curls a warning shake. “I’d never gae there meself.”
Once awake, Kate’s dream remained with her, and although she curved herself closer to Charles’s warmth and firmly closed her eyes, she could not go back to sleep. For whom had Flora prepared that tea tray? Why had she taken it to the old part of the castle? The questions chased one another through her mind like the castle’s fretful ghosts, rattling their chains, jostling her into restlessness.
Kate herself was not inclined to wander through haunted hallways in the dead of night, but the bold and incorrigible Beryl felt differently about such adventures. As Kate moved closer to Charles and tried to return to sleep, Beryl kept prodding her. Glamis was the oldest inhabited castle in Scotland and certainly the most ghostly, and night was the time when all those ghosts would be out and about. Famous ghosts, like the Gray Lady, Earl Beardie, the tragic Monster of Glamis, perhaps even Bonnie Prince Charlie or Sir Walter Scott. If she and Kate were going to gather ideas and material for the book, there would be no better time than tonight. Beryl grinned invitingly and cuffed her on the shoulder. Shall we have a go, old girl?
No, not tonight, Kate replied, as she fitted herself more snugly against Charles and pulled the covers over her head. The past two days had been long and tiring, and she was weary. They could explore the castle tomorrow, she promised Beryl. Tonight, they would sleep.
Suiting the deed to the thought, Kate closed her eyelids. A moment later, however, they were wide open again, and the irrepressible Beryl was poking more questions at her. Well, if you’re not interested in the castle’s ghosts, Kate, what about that odd business of Flora and the tea tray? Where was Flora going? Why? Surely we ought to at least go and have a look. What are you afraid of? A few moldy old ghosts?
At last, wide awake and feeling exasperated with Beryl’s relentless upbraiding and her own inability to sleep, Kate slid away from Charles, climbed carefully out of bed, and pushed her feet into her slippers. Charles turned over with a muffled sigh but did not seem to wake, as Kate, shivering in her nakedness, found the white flannel nightgown she had not bothered to put on earlier and dropped it over her head. Then she pulled on her flannel knickers and shrugged into her green dressing-gown, wrapping a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders for extra warmth. It might be August, but Glamis Castle held the chill of centuries of winters.
Feeling better now that she was dressed and moving about, Kate took the candlestick from the mantel and slipped extra matches into the pocket of her dressing-gown. Out in the pitch-black windowless hall, the door safely shut behind her, she lit the candle. Holding it in her hand, its tiny flame flickering bravely against the dark, she gathered her courage and groped her way toward the stairs.
But Kate had just reached the head of the stair when she put her hand to her mouth, stifling a small scream. A huge, ghostly monster, all in silver, lurched angrily out of a dark corner, wielding a monstrous cleaver, swinging it at her head. But as she stepped back, heart thumping, she realized that the apparition was no monster, and certainly not some fierce ghost. It was just a very large suit of full-body armor, with a very large sword in its mailed fist, propped in a corner at the head of the stair.
Kate stood for a moment, catching her breath, waiting for her heart to stop pounding, and hoping that Beryl’s curiosity about ghosts was satisfied at last. She lifted the candle higher, pulled her shawl tighter, and started cautiously down the wide stone stairs. Once, she thought she heard a soft step behind her and whirled, to see a threatening shadow. But she was not daunted. After all, it wasn’t the thought of ghosts that had lured her out of bed. It was Flora and her tray full of food—more than enough for one person, Gladys had seemed to suggest, or for more than one meal.
That’s right, Beryl said encouragingly. For more than one meal. Think about it, Kate. Perhaps Flora was taking the food to Eddy, who is hiding right here in the castle.
Kate stopped still, the candlelight casting uncertain shadows on the stones of the hallway staircase. In the castle? Why, of course! Where else? If German agents were trying to abduct him, Glamis Castle would be the safest place to hide, wouldn’t it? There must be dozens of places of concealment within this enormous stone pile, with its many cellars, its secret rooms, its pepper-pot turrets, and probably entire floors where the servants never went. Where the servants refused to go, because they were said to be haunted.
Now you’re on the right track, Beryl said approvingly, as Kate went down the stone stairs. Remember the way Flora acted when she was showing you the old crypt? You asked about the Monster, and she refused to talk about it. She didn’t really take you into the room, either, or give you a chance to look around. The two of you stood just inside the door, and she hu
rried you out as fast as she could. Was it because she was afraid you might see something you shouldn’t? The very first place to look for Prince Eddy—Lord Osborne, as she knows him—is the cell where the Monster of Glamis was hidden for so many years. And while you’re at it, my girl, keep your eyes peeled for ghosts, too. Always determined to get the most out of any experience, Beryl pulled out her mental notebook and pencil and began to jot down impressions. The ghostly suit of armor with its massive sword, like a figure of Death. The flickering candle casting grotesque shadows on the stone walls, giving the impression that she was being followed. The ancient clock ticking loudly at the foot of the stair. The massive stones all around her, each one soaked with the secrets of the ages. The heavy air, so thick that it felt almost furry. Chill, musty air that had been breathed by Sir Walter Scott, by the tragic Queen Mary, by Macbeth and Lady Macbeth and—
What rubbish! Kate shook herself impatiently. If Beryl wanted to take mental notes of her observations, she could at least make them accurate. Macbeth had never lived in this castle; that was Shakespeare’s mistake. Or his fiction. After all, Shakespeare’s plays only seemed to present historical truth. It was all a canny illusion.
She lifted her candle higher. She was in the main keep now, the castle’s great central tower, its oldest structure. The silence seemed audibly restless, small creatures scratching in the corners, furry things sidling out of dark hiding places, the candle flame licking and hissing at the wax, her silk dressing-gown rustling, and she winding around and down the circular staircase until she was dizzy.
And now, at last, at the very bottom, she was standing before the heavy wooden door to the crypt. She held up the candle, looking for the key on the peg, but to her surprise it wasn’t there. Of course! Beryl crowed triumphantly. Flora’s taken the key—which means that she must be in there, with Prince Eddy. And when Kate hesitated, feeling that the room was somehow forbidden, and quite sensibly aware that danger could lurk within, Beryl said into her ear, quite loudly, Why, Kate! You’re not afraid, are you?
Of course I’m not afraid, Kate told herself indignantly. I’m just cautious, that’s all. She put her ear to the door, but it was so thick that she would have heard nothing, even had Earl Beardie and the devil been carousing inside. Carefully, as quietly as she could, she lifted the rusty handle and pushed at the door. When it swung open, she saw that the large room was empty—of people, anyway. Whether there were ghosts here or not, she thought, she would leave it to Beryl to decide.
Closing the door behind her, her pulse hammering, her blood chilly in her veins, Kate stood in the oldest room in the castle, the long, narrow room that must have once been the lord’s banqueting room. Her candle was barely sufficient to light the whole space at once, so she received only a confused impression of flickering sights and sensations. The vaulted stone ceiling shimmered with damp, its narrow alcoves were full of moving shadows, and its walls were hung with ancient tapestries, ornate carvings, pieces of armor, and the stuffed heads of great curly-horned sheep, their glass eyes sinister in the candlelight. She stood for a moment, indecisively, not sure what she was looking for. The silence was so profound that all she could hear was the quick sighing of her own breath.
And then it began to seem to Kate that she could hear something else: the melodious murmur of low voices, much muted, as if they came from a very great distance. Lifting her candle higher, she crept toward the far end of the crypt, keeping close to one of the walls. On the left, there was another arched alcove, just wide enough to step into. The rear wall was hung with a heavy tapestry, suspended from a carved wooden rod. But the hanging did not quite extend to the floor, and beneath it Kate saw the faintest ribbon of light. Was there a doorway behind the tapestry? Did it lead to the cell where the Monster had been imprisoned for all those long, sad years?
She stepped closer. The voices ceased, and she stepped back, holding her breath. And then, after a moment, they began again, in harmony, a light female voice and a lower, heavier male voice. They were singing, and Kate could just make out the words.
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Watson: “How do you know that?”
Holmes: “Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.”
The Hound of the Baskervilles
Arthur Conan Doyle
“There, sir,” Flora said, when they’d finished their last song. “Thank ye for joining in.” She looked straight at him and shaped her words distinctly, so that he could read her lips if he did not catch the sounds of her words. She knew, however, that Lord Osborne was not nearly as deaf as he pretended to be, but rather used his deafness as a defense against unwanted annoyances. “D’ye feel better now?” she asked solicitously, extending her hand across the table.
“I do,” Lord Osborne replied, draining the last of the wine from his glass and pushing the empty bottle away. He took her hand, held it briefly, and released it. “Our singing always comforts me, Flora MacDonald.”
“I’m glad, Yer Highness,” Flora said, with the gay little smile she used to remind him that they were only playing—he at being the Bonnie Prince, she at being the Flora who was helping him to escape from the British soldiers who were pursuing him. “Shall we see if we can sleep, sir?”
“Sleep,” he said with a sigh. “It seems to me that I have been doing nothing but sleep for the past few days, ever since I came to this place.” He made an irritable, impatient sound, and pushed the empty glass across the table. “The danger must be past by now, Flora. When are we going to get away from here?”
“The danger isna past, I fear,” Flora replied gently, repeating something she had already told him several times over since she had returned to his cell in the afternoon. “The soldiers are still blockin’ th’ roads an’ searchin’ th’ woods for Yer Highness, an’ th’ grassy field tae th’ north is filled with tents, where they’re bivouacked. But I’ve found a tinker who’s willing tae take us tae Perth in his caravan, an’ from there we can take th’ train tae Glasgow, and a boat tae Skye. I’m sorry I can’t make Yer Highness more comfort’ble tonight,” she added. “But afore we leave on th’ morrow, I’ll creep up tae your rooms an’ find Yer Highness’s shaving gear an’ some clean linen.” That part worried her. He needed to be cleanly-shaved in order to defeat recognition, but his rooms might be guarded, and then what would she do?
“It’s all right, Flora.” Wearily, Lord Osborne rubbed his hands through his gray hair, which seemed to have grown grayer in the past few days, his face more lined, his stoop more pronounced. He was not a good-looking man, for his heavy-lidded eyes were large, his face narrow and horsey, and his neck extraordinarily long, so that his head seemed unnaturally high above his shoulders. His wide collars usually disguised this defect, but he was not wearing a collar now. His gray hair, stubbly gray beard, and sagging shoulders gave him almost the look of an old man, Flora thought, although she knew that he could not yet be forty. She began to reply, but he interrupted her.
“No, I must speak,” he said, and when he looked at her, his glance was calmer and more lucid than it had been for some time. “You are a dear, sweet girl to take such good care of me, Flora. But please don’t call me Highness.” His tone became sadly ironic. “I know who I am, and I promise you, I am no prince.”
“As yer lordship wishes,” Flora said, her worry lightening. She had been through this—periods of sad derangement alternating with clarity and sound sense—too many times to be hopeful that Lord Osborne’s delusions had disappeared. But if they were to travel as far as Perth with the tinker, it would certainly be helpful if she could count on him to take her instructions, or at least follow her lead, and without all that nonsense about his being a prince, and her being his lady.
She spread her cloak and the MacDonald-tartan shawl on one of the straw pallets Lord Osborne ha
d taken from his bed and put in the corner for her, and prepared to lie down. She had at first been reluctant to stay here with him, for fear of how it might look to others. Of course, she hoped that no one would ever discover where they’d been and that they had been together, but if it became known, she would learn to live with it. Her virtue was far more important to her than her reputation, and she knew Lord Osborne to be a true gentleman, sweet and kind and with no lechery in his heart.
And with luck, this would be their only night together in this place. Before dawn, they would steal out of the castle and walk through the woods to Roundyhill, where they would meet the tinker and find safe passage to Perth. The soldiers would almost certainly stop them on the road, but she felt she could count on the tinker to spin a fine tale about where he had been and where he was going, and why. And she and Lord Osborne would be only two raggle-taggle gypsies, not worth a minute’s thought or a second look.
“If you’re settled, I shall put out the candle,” Lord Osborne said, as Flora made herself comfortable.
And with that, he extinguished the flame, and the cell was immediately dark, a blackness so complete that Flora could feel the smothery weight of it pressing against her face, smelling of damp stone and burnt candle-wick. But she was not afraid, for even though this apartment adjacent to the crypt—once the secret residence of the poor creature known as the Monster of Glamis—was said to be haunted by that poor unfortunate’s weary spirit, she had never seen any evidence of it when she’d explored here as a child.
The Monster, her mother had told her, was the first son of Lord Strathmore’s grandfather Thomas, the eleventh earl. The infant was horribly deformed and judged unfit to take his part in the society to which he was born. His father ordered that the baby be done away with immediately, but he was spared by some sympathetic intervention, perhaps because it was felt that he must soon die of natural causes. But the Monster proved to be surprisingly healthy, despite his evident handicaps. He lived out the span of his life—some forty years—in these small rooms, occasionally allowed the freedom of the park and the pleasures of the woods but permitted no human society other than those who served him. The poor creature had died in the 1860s, but Lord Strathmore was so distressed by the imprisonment of the Monster—who must have been his father’s uncle—that he would not allow anyone to speak of it, even to this day.