Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  “1715?”

  “The year of our Lord,” George said. “The Union with England was still a festering sore, and the Earl and the Countess joined with the Duke of Perth and the Master of Sinclair, and many more, to fight, even though it would cost them everything. They had been sworn to action since the day Union was declared in Edinburgh.”

  “The Duke of Perth?” Adeena was confused. “But was he even born then?”

  George smiled. “The Third Duke was not, but I can assure you his father, the Second Duke of Perth, was very much born!”

  The light outside seemed to grow a little brighter. The countryside was becoming more visible. Everything was getting a little clearer. In fact, Adeena had researched most of what George had just told her, but she had just not assembled the pieces in the context of Katharine. At least George had confirmed one thing, the date.

  “So now in 1745, James, the Third Duke of Perth, fights again, like his father,” she said, sorting it out in her mind.

  “Just like his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather and if truth be told, all the Drummond’s stretching back o’er two centuries. All o’ them who carried on the crusade for Scotland and the support of our King,” George said, his tone beginning to sound like a lecture.

  “Is that what drives him? His ancestors?”

  “It does. But there is something else I believe, that is even stronger,” George grinned.

  “Something else?”

  “Aye. Lady Jean, his mother.”

  At this Adeena needed no explanation. The brief encounter with Lady Jean the first time Adeena had played at Kinnaird, confirmed she was a woman you defied at your own risk. “I met her at Kinnaird the night I performed. She did seem like a strong woman.”

  “Ye have no idea,” George confirmed. “Her husband, the Second Duke of Perth, died in Paris a few years after he escaped to France. Lady Jean raised the boys on her own, and she turned them into patriots, the likes of which we have rarely seen in this country.”

  “The boys?”

  “Aye, James and little John, although not so little anymore,” George said. “Katharine, rest a while. It will be some time before we come upon the gates of Drummond Castle.”

  “I’m not tired George, really. Tell me more about the Drummond’s and the Carnegie's. I seem to have missed so much.”

  “Yes my sister, indeed you have. Your music all you cared about. I used to think it had swallowed you whole!”

  Adeena smiled at this assessment. She understood Katharine instinctively and had a good idea what she was doing when she was ’swallowed’ – composing, creating, searching to find the music within her. She looked at George. “Well, are you going to tell me a story or not?”

  “Aye sister, sit back and I will give you the whole sad, epic tale,” he responded.

  The driver snapped his whip again at the horses, and they responded with a burst of energy. And for the next two hours George recounted to Adeena in the most minute detail, stories of the Drummond’s and the Carnegie’s. He took her through their adventures and mis-adventures, their triumphs and failures and all their loves, losses and hates. He also wove in his own personal version of the rise and fall of the Scottish nation.

  Her dad would have given his right arm to hear this history lesson.

  THE DAY WAS growing bright when they suddenly stopped.

  Adeena had been so absorbed by George’s stories, she had almost forgotten she was in a horse-drawn carriage. Though it was bumpy and they swayed back and forth, it was not unlike a long car ride.

  “What is it?” George called out to the driver of the carriage.

  “Ye better get out my Laird.”

  George opened the door and jumped out. Adeena followed.

  The carriage had stopped on a well-travelled lane, surrounded by trees. They were in a dense forest, but off in a clearing, a castle dominated the horizon. Two men on horses blocked the road ahead. They seemed to be soldiers, judging by their double-breasted red coats, blue bonnets and bayonet-tipped muskets.

  “Is there a problem?” George shouted out, walking towards them.

  “Aye, there is,” the first soldier responded. “Who are ye? And where ye headed?”

  “George Carnegie, with my sister Katharine,” he responded, as Adeena stepped up beside him. “I am escorting her to play for the Duke of Perth. Tonight, at the Prince’s ball.”

  The two soldiers peered closely at Adeena. The second one said, “The same who performed at Kinnaird?”

  Adeena looked up. “Yes, the same.”

  “Lady Katharine,” the soldier said. “I am Andrew, and this is Ross, my cousin.” He pointed to the other man on horseback. “We both had the guid fortune to see ye perform las’ week. Words canna tell all the problems ye caused.”

  “Problems?” George asked.

  The two men smiled, nodding their heads. “Your sister’s music,” Andrew continued. “It’s in me head. In me heart too. But alas, the Duke told the Prince that you’re spoken for!”

  Adeena blushed. George grinned and put his arm around her. “The Prince is here now? At Drummond Castle?”

  Before Andrew could answer, there was a loud crack of gunfire.

  Andrew’s horse collapsed, throwing him to the ground. The two horses that had been pulling the carriage were startled and reared up wildly. One horse’s heavy hooves came down and caught Andrew’s shoulder pinning him to the ground. He screamed in agony, as his horse lay dying beside him.

  George grabbed Adeena and pushed her towards the open door of the carriage. “Run!” he yelled at her. She scurried towards the carriage, but didn’t get in. Instead, she crouched down, looking all around her, then under the carriage and through the legs of the two startled horses still harnessed to the carriage.

  George ran to Andrew, writhing in agony. His horse lay beside him, dead. There was a bloody gouge in the horse’s skull, and the ground ran crimson with warm blood streaming from the lifeless animal. George moved closer to Andrew, who was also bleeding badly. His shoulder was deeply gashed by the hooves of the horse that had reared up.

  Another shot rang out. It seemed to come from behind a broad oak tree off to the side of the carriage. Ross, who had already dismounted from his horse, dashed towards the tree.

  Adeena watched with horror, crouching down near the carriage. She needed to help. Now! She ran towards George and Andrew who lay on the ground, still screaming in pain. The eye of his dead horse seemed to follow her as she made her way to the injured soldier.

  “His shoulder,” George whispered desperately. “He’s bleeding, something awful.”

  Adeena knew this was bad. Fatal, if they couldn’t stop the bleeding. She looked around for something to use as a compress. She realized that she was wearing a cape, which she quickly tore off to wrap around Andrew’s wound. She managed to raise him up enough to wrap the cape tightly around his damaged shoulder. He screamed as she worked to stop the flow of blood with her hastily improvised dressing.

  “Stay with him,” George said. He fled towards the tree where Ross had run.

  Ross brandished the blade of his Highland dirk. He found the man who had shot at them, and in a single motion, used his blade to knock the musket from the man’s hands before he could finish reloading with fresh powder. Ross pushed the man over and pinned him to the ground with his boot.

  Ross thrust his sharp dagger inches from the man’s terrified face. “Don’t kill me!” the man pleaded.

  “Who are ye?” George shouted as he reached the scene. The ‘man’ on the ground, was actually a boy, maybe fifteen at most. He trembled as Ross pushed his blade forward, touching the lad’s quivering chin.

  “I donnae want a die!” the terrified boy screamed.

  “Should’ve thought of that before ye shot at us,” Ross shouted. George laid his own hand over Ross’s, and pulled it back an inch or so from the gasping boy’s soft chin.

  “You won’t die, if you tell us why,” George said. “Why
did ye fire upon us?”

  “I was told to make sure your carriage never reached Drummond Castle,” the boy exclaimed. “By my Laird.”

  “Your Laird? Who?” Ross demanded. “Who is your laird?”

  “Sir James Carnegie, o’ Kinnaird. He makes us fight. He threatened my father who farms for him. I became a soldier and I was trained to use a firelock musket,” the boy said, almost crying.

  Ross looked confused. He turned toward George. “Sir James Carnegie? Do you know of him?”

  “Indeed I do! He is my brother. And Katharine our sister,” George answered.

  Before Ross could react, there was a loud scream.

  It came from Adeena. She held Andrew in her arms, her white smock now completely drenched in his blood. Standing over her was another man, much older than the boy pinned under Ross’ heavy boot. The man held a musket pointed directly at Adeena’s head.

  George looked over as Ross kept the lad firmly pinned under his boot.

  “Let the boy go!” the man shouted, his musket fixed on Adeena’s head. “Or I will finish what he started.”

  The boy pushed Ross’ boot off him and scurried away, running as though possessed.

  “What do you want from us?” Adeena shouted to the man who held his musket inches from her face. George and Ross approached slowly.

  “Turn this carriage around now and follow me back to Kinnaird,” he said. “The Lady and her brother are to be tried for treason if they take another step toward Drummond Castle.”

  Ross continued to advance slowly, his long knife thrust before him. George followed behind.

  “Stop where you are,” the man yelled. He shoved the musket against Adeena’s head.

  “Who gives ye these orders?” George asked.

  “Sir Carnegie of Pittarow, Laird of Kinnaird. Member of Parliament for Kincardineshire, and a Captain of His Majesty’s royal regiment,” the man replied.

  Adeena studied her captor. He was strong and determined. He held his weapon firmly against her head. Andrew lay nearly unconscious in her arms. George and John stood frozen, just a few steps away.

  And then in an instant there was a wild, ferocious whoop and a brindle stallion charged from the woods. The man pulled his gun from Adeena’s head, and pressed his boot down onto Andrew’s chest, pushing hard on both Andrew and Adeena who still held the wounded man in her arms.

  James Drummond, riding Balgair, flew towards them in a fury. The musket exploded with a deafening blast, firing in the direction of horse and rider, just missing both. James leapt from his horse and onto the man, knocking him over. In a split second, James scrambled up and pressed his dirk to the man’s neck. Ross and George rushed forward, grabbing the man’s smoking musket.

  James held the sharp blade steady against the man’s throat. He pulled the man’s head back roughly, grabbing his long dirty hair. James gripped the handle of his weapon tightly, scraping the man’s throat just above his protruding Adam’s apple. “Prepare to die!”

  “Stop!” Adeena shouted. She had never been this close to death before. She held Andrew, gravely wounded, writhing in terrible pain and perhaps close to dying himself if he didn’t get immediate attention. “We need to get help! He’s bleeding, badly.”

  Ross crouched down, his face inches from his wounded cousin. “Andrew? Speak to me!”

  Andrew moaned, and tried to speak. He pushed his head back onto Adeena’s shoulder.

  “There is a surgeon at Drummond,” James barked. “He will tend to Andrew. Put him in the carriage so we can take him there now.” Ross bent down and began to lift Andrew into his arms. Adeena helped as best she could, transferring the bleeding man to his cousin. Ross got his arms around Andrew, lifted him up with Adeena’s help and the two carried him to the carriage.

  James kept his knife to the attacker’s throat. “The Lady wishes me to spare you,” James said roughly, rotating the blade to remind the man that he still controlled him and could extinguish his life in a second. George came ‘round and looked at the man directly.

  “I know this man!” he exclaimed. “I’ve seen him, at Kinnaird.”

  Adeena returned and studied the man herself, then turned towards James. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “He tried to kill one of my men,” James snorted. “What do you suggest, My Lady?”

  Adeena, her clothing still wet with Andrew’s blood, felt only pity. She looked at the man, his life hanging precariously on her words, a sharp blade at his throat ready to snuff out his life.

  “Please. Enough James,” she cried. “Let him go!”

  James slowly pulled his dirk away from the man’s throat, but kept a firm hold on his hair. “For you, Katharine. Only for you,” James said. He let the man go, and then pushed him to the ground. He lay there a moment, before standing slowly - angry and sullen.

  George stepped forward and looked at the man. “Ye work for my brother, then?”

  “I have nae choice,” the man responded. “He is my Laird. My overseer. He gave me but one choice. Fight, or leave my farm.”

  “Your farm?” James intruded. “You farm at Kinnaird?”

  “Aye, black cattle. And oats and barley, to pay the victual rent” the man replied. “Six bolls per quarter.”

  “So ye fight against your own country now?” James asked. “To keep your land?”

  “Aye. It’s not my land, but I need to keep from starving. Nae for me, but for my wife. Fo my sons and my daughter,” the man said.

  “What name are you called by?” James asked. Adeena watched curiously, as she sensed his attitude towards the man shifting.

  “We are Beattie,” he replied. “Finlay Beattie.”

  James seemed to consider this for a moment. Adeena wondered what he was thinking. A few moments ago he was ready to kill this man, and it was only her protests seemed to save him. She glanced at James. He looked at her like he was running a set of calculations in his head.

  “I will spare you, Finlay. Pray that Andrew survives or I may have to reverse that course,” he said. “You fight to protect your family. We fight to save our Nation. The Prince has already conquered Perth and the Highlands, and soon all of Angus will follow.”

  Finlay was listening, nodding his head.

  James continued, his tone shifting. “And do you know that you have a new King? The Prince has proclaimed James the Eighth returned once more, and the Union with England abolished. Scotland is its own Kingdom again, as it was when our fathers were born.”

  Finlay rubbed his chin. “My father hated the Union. He served Earl Carnegie. Twice the man his cousin will ever be, a black Carnegie who thirsts to regain the Earldom and all o’ Kinnaird.”

  George stepped forward. “My brother will stop at nothing in this quest. He is using you and your son, and he will offer you nothing for your sacrifice.”

  Finlay sighed. “I fear you know him well.”

  “Join us, Finlay,” James offered, “and we will protect your family. Return to Kinnaird, and tell your master that George and Katharine have fled, beyond your grasp, and that you know not what became of them. Wait for us. Our cause is strong all across Angus and Forfarshire, and soon, very soon, we will need your help.”

  Finlay said nothing, but Adeena could see him nodding, considering what had been offered.

  James turned to Adeena. “Come My Lady. We need to get Andrew to the surgeon. And I need to get you to Drummond Castle.”

  15

  THESE WERE THE kind of days that caused Tara to wake with a start, ready to pounce. The opening of the new exhibit had sparked national media attention and the guest list for today’s opening was the crème de-la-crème of embassy row and the haughtiest of Ottawa’s haughty upper crust. And she was the epicentre, the cog that kept everything moving in synchronous orbit.

  She had to admit, Adeena had done a great job getting the exhibit ready. Her research painted a compelling story of 18th Century Scotland. And focusing the throes of war through a prism of rarely seen a
rt had turned out to be a brilliant idea. Of course, Tara thought with a smile, it was mine!

  She stood beside the National Gallery’s Director, André Borgons. He was getting set to address the dignitaries, journalists and other assorted guests who stood outside the glass walled entrance, dominated by the hanging banner announcing the Art of Rebellion / Art de la rébellion exhibit.

  “Fantastic!” André whispered to her. “Great work!”

  She smiled again thinking about Adeena and the sparks that flew between them bringing the exhibit to life. ‘Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight,’ she mused. The words from Bruce Cockburn were an inspiration she often drew upon. While others might seek the path of least resistance, Tara sought out challenge and never considered losing to be an option.

  “Thanks André, I’ve got a great team,” she replied. “You got my notes?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Tara,” André said, stepping forward to address the group. “Bievenue Ladies and Gentlemen, madams et monsieurs, to the National Gallery of Canada,” he started, projecting his voice like the experienced public speaker he had become over the last five years. “We’re proud to give you a sneak peek of our new exhibit and a collection of artwork and artifacts never been seen before in North America.”

  Tara had always admired André with his doctorate in art history and his long list of published articles.

  But his real talent was showman. He knew how to sell the sizzle.

  AS THE TOUR proceeded through the exhibit, Tara took note of the attendees she had invited, drawing satisfaction from the black tie, evening gown crowd. She checked them off in her head - the ambassador to Canada from the United Kingdom, the President of the Robert Burns Association of North America and the head of the St. Andrew’s Society of Toronto. They all mingled together, sipping sparkling wine or testing their olfactory glands with samples of twenty-five-year-old Bunnahabhain Single Malt Scotch. Formally attired servers offered delicate salmon canapés, miniature haggis and Angus meatballs on toothpicks tipped with tiny blue Scottish flags.