Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  23

  THE DUKE OF Perth’s steel pistol proved a persuasive negotiating tool.

  As James Drummond cocked the gun’s hammer and pointed the barrel at the head of Carlisle’s town clerk, it became even more convincing.

  “Tell me again why ye cannot proclaim the new King of England?” James demanded, shoving his polished Doune revolver against the trembling clerk’s forehead.

  “I never proclaimed a king before, and know no form for it,” John Pearson stammered. He looked uneasily at the three other men in the room who stood behind James like a murder of crows.

  “No form for it?” James laughed. “What shall we do?”

  “Maybe this’ll help,” one of the soldiers snorted, unsheathing his dirk and pressing the steel blade to the man’s quavering neck.

  With a gun at his head and a knife to his throat, clerk Pearson acquiesced. “I think I may be able to come up with a form.”

  “I thought ye might,” James smiled. “You will proclaim as of 17, November 1745, the return of the Stuart monarchy to England. King James the Third, already proclaimed James the Eighth of Scotland.”

  “Yes sir,” the clerk responded. His eyes darted between James and the soldier holding the knife to his throat. “Shall I start now, sir?”

  “Indeed you shall!” James exclaimed, backing away. “Leave him to his work,” he told the man holding the knife. The soldier backed away reluctantly. “The Prince will be here on the ‘morrow. We have much to finish before then.”

  As James left the clerk’s chamber, he knew what news he would share in tonight’s letter to his mother. She had waited all her life for the return of the Catholic monarch to the English throne. And today her wish came true.

  If only on paper.

  ADEENA SAT CURLED on the sofa, watching her dad build a fire. Warmth at last seeped into her as she took another sip of hot tea and watched flames engulf the dry logs.

  “Tara left in a hurry,” her dad said. “She didn’t want to stay? Have lunch with us?”

  Adeena chuckled. That would have been interesting. After getting a call from work, Tara stormed away yelling over her shoulder: “Hope you got a good lawyer!”

  Now that she was gone, Adeena speculated how the Duncan Cello got back to the gallery. “Dad, what time did Philippe leave?”

  “Last night after we went to bed, I guess,” her dad said, closing up the steel mesh that held the dancing licks of fire at bay. “He had to work this morning.”

  Yeah, he worked alright, Adeena mused. Worked at saving my butt. She wondered how he got the Duncan Cello into Tara’s office.

  Her father sat down on the chaise lounge where he liked to read. She noticed the journal sitting on the table beside him. “I’d love to read that,” Adeena said, pointing to the leather volume.

  He sighed. “I know you would. But don’t you think it’ll just make things worse?”

  “Dad, please. Didn’t Grandma Stuart give it to us?”

  “Pumpkin…” he started, but then fell silent.

  Adeena recalled her feelings for the Captain she had sparred with a few times. “The prick that wrote that journal is Katharine’s brother. He’s a real asshole.”

  Her father studied her for a moment. He nodded slowly before responding. “I did some research before I left Scotland. I couldn’t find much on Katharine Carnegie, but I did determine she was a musician.”

  Adeena lit up. “You found something? Tell me!”

  “I went to Drummond Castle and met the guide there - a history teacher. He took me to a private archive in Crieff, and I found correspondence that’s never been published - letters from James Drummond.”

  “Really? How many?” Adeena asked wide-eyed. Her mother watched from the kitchen, frowning.

  “A dozen or more to his mother, I uh - forget her name, I think its …”

  “Lady Jean,” Adeena interjected.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “She’s amazing,” Adeena said, recalling the iron-willed woman. “James is afraid of letting her down. I think that’s what drives him.”

  “How do you know all this?” Her dad looked at her strangely.

  “Because I spent time with James, and his mother and of course, the asshole Captain.”

  “Sir James Carnegie? The one who wrote this journal?”

  “Yeah, and there is something even stranger.”

  “Stranger? Stranger than you going back in time and becoming another woman?” Her father had spoken the words, and now her mother stepped forward from the kitchen. She seemed ready to interrupt, but didn’t.

  “The score, the one you sent to me, that Grandma took from Kinnaird,” Adeena explained. “I wrote the first bars myself, when I was a teenager, but I could never finish, hard as a tried. And I had lyrics in my head that didn’t make sense, until you sent me that music.”

  “Are you sure it was the same?” her mother jumped in.

  “Yes, I am. When I got the score I couldn’t believe that the first eight bars were note-for-note the ones I had written - a song I couldn’t finish. And my lyrics, words that just poured from me one day a long time ago and were still stuck in my head - they fit the music perfectly.”

  Adeena studied the effect of her words on her parents. They looked worried. Her dad spoke first. “There is no record of Katharine Carnegie ever publishing music,” he said more to himself than to his wife and his daughter. “In one letter though, James Drummond talks about the music she performed, and the effect on him and the men in his regiment.”

  “What’d he say?” Adeena and her mother both exclaimed, almost simultaneously.

  “Trying to remember,” he said, reaching for his iPad. He searched a second. “I took pictures of some of the letters.” He tapped the screen and scrolled up until he found it. He read the words aloud:

  “Lady Katharine’s song pierced not only my heart, but all my men who heard it that evening. Even the Prince is humbled against the power of her instrument, of her words and of her voice. She woke the passion to fight in every last man gathered at Drummond and I am glad you asked me to thank her afterwards.

  Even now, as our situation becomes precarious, I hold her words close.”

  Adeena closed her eyes. “I remember that night. I played at the ball and afterward James and I danced,” She relived the breathless excitement of dancing for what seemed like hours. “He wouldn’t let me stop!”

  Her mother shook her head and Adeena caught her looking at her. What was she thinking?

  As if to answer, her mother bit her lip tersely and walked back toward the kitchen without a word.

  “AND YOU EXPECT me to believe that?” Tara barked.

  The young man standing in her office, Michael from security, smiled nervously. “I work the night shift and go to school during the day, I don’t get much sleep.”

  “Oh perfect! That’s your excuse for sending up a fake?”

  Michael shrugged his shoulders as Pablo tapped on the glass doors of her office holding a cello case. She waved him in.

  “Good thing the exhibit is closed today,” Tara fumed as Pablo came through the doors. “Let me see!”

  Pablo set the case down and opened it up. “This is the cello we have on display.” He turned to Michael who stood beside another cello case on a stand. “And that we believe is the actual Duncan Cello. It was in the secure area until Michael realized the mix-up and brought it up this morning. I asked him to put it in your office and called you right away.”

  “Let me see them both,” Tara snapped.

  Pablo set the cases on the floor, and carefully opened them. Tara compared the two. She could see no obvious differences. They seemed to be identical twins, but upon closer examination the cello that Michael had delivered from storage looked older somehow when she compared the two instruments side-by-side.

  Tara was only an amateur archivist. Her job was to organize exhibits, select works and attract paying customers. She wisely let other others handle the meticulo
us work of restoration and preservation. She was certain they would confirm this instrument, supposedly stored in the basement all this time, to be the actual Duncan Cello. She would have them tag the fake, and increase security on the real one.

  Her phone rang. It was André, her boss. She waved Pablo and Michael out of her office. “Close the door, please,” she said dropping down on the leather chair behind her desk. She hurriedly gathered her thoughts.

  “Good morning André. How are things in London?” She needed time to think. Good thing he was in England, likely calling for an update and to discuss strategy for the auction he would be attending this evening at Harrods.

  As they talked, Tara noticed Michael and Pablo outside her office. They seemed to be having a lively exchange, with Pablo doing most of the talking, and Michael shaking his head vigorously. Pablo raised his arms for emphasis and proceeded to use an animated series of arm gestures to reinforce whatever he was saying.

  Michael grinned, nodding his head watching Pablo. After a moment they shook hands and patted each other warmly, leaving Tara wondering what in the world they were talking about.

  Whatever it was, she didn’t like the looks of it.

  NOVEMBER OF 1745 was darker and colder in Northern England than usual, even for this forlorn month. The sun had been swallowed up, leaving behind only grey gloom and frigid air for both man and beast alike.

  Despite their initial success at Carlisle, when the town welcomed the Prince’s army, the campaign to return the Stuart monarchy to England was hitting a wall of resistance.

  James Drummond struggled to keep his own spirits high, and his men from fleeing back to the comfort of their homes in the Tay Valley. While he favoured inspiration over desperation and praise over punishment, of late he had found more and more that he needed to dispense military justice. Even for a minor infraction, he had made men suffer the bite of a horse whip or the terror of a freezing night in a black cell without rations.

  His regiment moved heavy guns, artillery and supplies to support the Highland regiments led by Prince Charles. When they arrived in an English town that had been surrounded by the Prince and his army, they would help secure rations, brandy, and lodgings before making their camp. The first night often lead to drunken looting and raping, all of which he tried to curtail as much as possible without much success.

  Katharine’s warning haunted him still. Her words about the Prince echoed in his head. ‘He will fail and you will not live to see another summer.’ Her message inside his tunic kissed his bare chest.

  I will always wait for you. Forever, even when I’m gone.

  As he opened his tent to greet yet another cold grey morning, her face washed over him. Her eyes, her mouth, her whole countenance - were something he conjured readily. He felt his passion rising, recalling the feeling of her in his arms at Drummond Castle. If she were here now, he would take her as a man does with the woman who is truly made for him. And she would give herself to their holy union. He wanted Katharine flowing through him and he through her. Two united as one.

  The bitter chill yanked him from his reverie. The wind blew fiercely this morning and a group of ragged soldiers approached him with a look of desperation.

  “Brandy’s ‘bout done sir,” one of them quipped. The boy, no more than ten and five years, held a flask in his hand. “Look!” He turned the bottle upside down.

  James knew that men could not be expected to start another wretched day without brandy. “I’ll get more, for all of you. But here, take this now.” He pulled a vessel from his vest and offered it to the man who bowed his head.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  James watched as the boy offered the brandy to his older companion, who stared with hollowed eyes and feeble expression. The old man looked dirty and seemed cold with a chill that must be deep in his bones by now. His hand shook as he raised the vessel to his lips and sucked a heavy dram. The warmth lifted him a little and he sighed his appreciation.

  Brandy and oats were all that kept these men from deserting. They were farmers, not soldiers. To raise their spirits, he would search for beef today in the village. A boiled supper tonight, if he could provide it, would give them strength to start the fifty-mile trek to Manchester, a prize the Prince coveted.

  James was doubtful. He touched his heart and felt the parchment with Katharine’s words upon them press against his breast. He was driven by the Prince, by his mother and the whole of Drummond Clan to fight and to face death in necessary.

  But it was the thought of Katharine that kept him longing for life.

  JACKIE STARED AT the images on Dr. Lochiel’s high-resolution computer monitors.

  “Give me your theory again doctor,” she asked, somewhat overwhelmed with his five-minute explanation about the series of scans he showed her.

  “No problem,” he said as he clicked the mouse on his laptop and the screen refreshed. “I worked on this with Dr. Chung from the university for quite a while, and even I don’t quite get it.”

  Well at least it’s not just me, Jackie smiled. Lately everything she thought she knew was being turned upside down. And her daughter was the biggest mystery of all. Adeena’s stories were compelling and William was starting to believe that somehow, impossibly, they were true. He claimed that Adeena was not only connected to a woman from the past, but also that she ‘became’ her, even though the woman was born almost three-hundred-years earlier.

  Father and daughter seemed to feed off each other, but Jackie knew that if she got sucked in, there would be no one left to question the impossibility of the story.

  “This is the area we’ve focused on,” Dr. Lochiel said, pointing to a section of a CT scan he had zoomed in on. “And look at this.” He clicked a menu on the screen and the screen refreshed again. A three-dimensional image appeared. “You see this area between the lateral and third ventricles?”

  Jackie put on her glasses and peered at the screen. She squinted trying to see what Dr. Lochiel was pointing to.

  “Just a second,” he said, as he took the mouse and began to draw a red circle on the screen around a small dark area. “Right here. This might look like a tumour, but it’s not. It’s a collection of nerve cells that are regenerating, at an astounding rate. Dr. Chung has been looking over the scans and wants to come and talk with the patient. He wants to try a new imaging technique he’s developing.”

  “That’s my daughter you’re talking about,” Jackie said curtly. “She’s not a guinea pig for you to experiment with.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound like that,” Dr. Lochiel replied, turning his chair towards Jackie. “Your daughter has nerve growth that is normally only present in developing fetuses or newborn babies.”

  Jackie frowned as she listened. “Go on.”

  “I know it sounds odd, and that’s why this case is…uh…” he paused, looking back at the monitor.

  “Case is what?”

  “Well, I’ve never seen anything like this. You know I always try give you a full range of options for your patients.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “I realize that,” he touched his neck and looked down before continuing. “Look, a growth in the brain, of any type is not good. In this case, it seems to be benign neuro-regeneration. I don’t think it’s malignant, although we’re not sure yet.”

  Jackie bit her lip. “Okay, so what’s the problem?” She studied the doctor, who seemed to be hedging. “Ron, how long have we worked together?”

  “Oh I don’t know, maybe ten years?”

  “Yeah, so don’t hold back here. Adeena has a benign growth in her brain? Are you’re worried, or not? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “This growth, whatever it is, is pushing against other areas, it’s expanding, and.. ”

  “And what? Why can’t you give it to me straight?”

  Dr. Lochiel looked at Jackie squarely. “Your daughter has new cells growing in her brain. It is like another person is develo
ping inside of her.”

  WITH THE DUNCAN Cello gone, Adeena poured herself into the world of practicing and rehearsals, rehearsals and practicing, twelve hours a day. Every day. For almost three weeks now, her days were only about the music.

  If not for the composition she and Katharine had created, it would have been a very boring ordeal. But, it was the opposite.

  The music provided the motivation for her to wake up early. She wrote down all the lyrics she had been nursing since she was fifteen that she sang so powerfully as Katharine. Sometimes when she was alone, she sang them out loud to herself. Her voice didn’t have the range it did when she sang as Katharine, but then the circumstances were also much different. She wasn’t in a candle-lit castle, backed by live musicians and urged on by a spirited audience.

  Adeena closed her eyes recalling those performances. There was a gestalt created when the music left her lips and vibrated off the strings of her instrument, when it connected with the men and women watching her. It ignited something inside them. An elixir she found nowhere else.

  She realized performing in the NAC orchestra wasn’t likely to provide that experience to her, but she was determined nonetheless, to prove she could play with them. Particularly when they were playing her music.

  As she was getting set to leave for the afternoon’s rehearsal, her cell phone rang.

  “Hey you.” It was Philippe.

  “Hi! Where are you?”

  “London, just leaving for Rome with the Prime Minister. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “Tough life, eh?”

  “Somebody’s gotta do it,” he said lightly. “I’d like to be back for your opening. This weekend, right?”

  She looked at her watch. “Yup, Saturday night. I reserved some very good seats.”