Highland Betrayal

by Markland, Anna

  The musketeers evidently expected to help themselves to spoils inside the half-ruined castle. Their sullen belligerence increased when it became clear there was nothing to plunder and no women to rape. Vermin abounded. The well was dry. What little food remained was rancid or worm-eaten. The chapel, standing starkly alone at one end of the bailey, had served as repository for the bodies of the dead, every man wrapped reverently in his plaid. The whole fortress stank like a midden, but the reek in the chapel was enough to churn the strongest belly.

  Morgan feared the infantrymen might turn their aggression on the handful of elderly women from Stonehyve who’d gathered at the base of the steep path. They’d petitioned to be allowed to tend the wounded. He half-hoped his maiden-of-the-beach might be among them, but was strangely relieved when they were finally allowed within the gates and she didn’t appear.

  The dozen or so casualties who lay in the rat-infested hall weren’t likely to survive in his opinion, but he supposed the nursing might ease the pain of their passing. He hoped when he died there’d be a raven-haired woman to…

  Christ! He was becoming fixated on the one attractive female he’d set eyes on in sennights. His wife was dead. There’d be no other. If he was granted a place in paradise, she would welcome him into heaven. He’d no doubt his god-fearing Blodwen would be seated at the right hand of the Almighty, for there was no purer soul. She couldn’t read, but kept the small leather-bound bible handed down by her grandmother in a place of honor on the sideboard. She was fond of boasting it was one of the first ever written in the Welsh language, and quoted it at every opportunity. She was particularly fond of the passages that spoke of the sins of the flesh, and believed bedding was a necessary evil for the begetting of children. He’d chafed at her obvious dislike of coupling with him, but a man shouldn’t think ill of the dead. She’d done her duty and never once refused him. It was another of life’s ironies she’d died birthing a stillborn babe.

  Sickened by the stink and tired of fruitlessly searching through empty kitchens that clearly hadn’t been used to prepare food in a long while, he made his way up to the battlements and looked out over the darkening sea.

  Light from the rising moon winked on the treacherous rocks far below, still slick with the waters of the ebbing tide. He inhaled deeply to rid his nostrils of the smell of death, and pondered again what the lass had been doing on the beach. Whatever she’d harvested seemed too heavy to be seaweed. Crabs, mayhap?

  DISBELIEF

  The crew moved the gunnery tents closer to the cannon. Morgan thanked the Almighty he wasn’t obliged to spend the night within Dùn Fhoithear’s walls. Nevertheless, sleep eluded him, thanks to the heavy rain and the sounds of something going on in the bailey, though he didn’t know what. Nothing good, he was certain.

  Summoned by General Abbott the following morning, his gut tightened when he entered the gates and espied a musketeer poking Lady Ogilvy’s prone body with his gun. She lay in a pool of muddy rainwater, her shivering husband standing close by with wrists manacled. It appeared they had been out in the elements for hours without adequate clothing. The ordeal had obviously been too much for the elderly woman. By the look of abject grief on her husband’s face, Morgan feared she was dead.

  Anger surging in his throat, he strode over to the infantryman, yanked the musket out of his hands and shoved him in the chest with the barrel. “This is no way to treat a lady. What’s your name?”

  The musketeer scowled and for a moment it appeared he might retaliate, but then it seemed to dawn on him that striking an officer would lead to the scaffold. Instead, he spat on Lady Ogilvy. “Pritchard, sir, and she’s a fyking Scot.”

  The Protector’s plan to bring Scotland into the fold of the Commonwealth was doomed to failure if hatred between English and Scots lay at the basis of it. The victory at Din-bar and the sack of Dùn Dè had only widened the divide in Morgan’s opinion.

  General Abbott chose that moment to make his presence known with a loud cough, preventing the diatribe Morgan had been about to hurl. In any case, such notions would be beyond the comprehension of the surly musketeer. He came to attention and saluted, aware it was this officer who’d failed to bring the mayhem at Dùn Dè under control.

  The general indicated the weapon be returned, then waved the sour-faced Pritchard away. “You are correct that such treatment is abhorrent,” he muttered close to Morgan’s ear. “But Cromwell won’t be pleased if we fail to locate and destroy the cursed regalia. However, I have a plan. Arm your gunners with torches and set the chapel alight.”

  Morgan had a momentary vision of his dead wife. Blodwen wasn’t a Catholic and referred to papists as agents of the devil, but even she wouldn’t condone the deliberate destruction of a place of prayer. “Burn it, sir?” he asked in disbelief.

  Abbott took his elbow and drew him away from Lord Ogilvy. “There’s no alternative. The dead must be disposed of and I won’t expose my men to disease by having them carry decaying bodies out of there in order to bury them.”

  It made sense. Morgan didn’t want to touch the rotting corpses, and if only one soldier fell victim to contagion, it would spread quickly through the ranks. But the task lay like a lead ball in his gut.

  Abbott stroked his moustache. “My instinct tells me that’s where the regalia is hidden.”

  Morgan narrowed his eyes at the doomed structure. The squat building sat at the end of the bailey, far enough removed from the main fortress that there should be no danger of the whole place going up in flames, especially if the rain continued. He avoided looking at the Scottish lord and his wife, saluted again and sloshed off through the muddy puddles to equip his gunners. He muttered a plea Blodwen might forgive him for what he was about to do.

  TOO MANY QUESTIONS

  Mrs. Grainger took command the moment the conspirators re-entered the tiny cottage. Her husband might be the minister but it was evident the house was her demesne. She guided the weary soul to sit on a stool by the hearth where she had left water to warm by the fire.

  “Hie to yon bedroom and take off that shift,” she instructed Hannah. “I’ll tend to ye after I’ve seen to my mon.”

  Too tired to argue, Hannah shuffled over to the sleeping alcove and perched on the edge of the bed. As her uncle’s ward, she’d had her own chamber in his castle at Kilmer since childhood. Living as a spy among common folk, she’d quickly learned they had no choice but to share confined spaces without regard for the niceties the nobility observed. She wasn’t surprised therefore when Mrs. Grainger quickly stripped off every stitch of her husband’s clothing and began to wash him.

  Grainger’s bulging eyes and thin lips indicated he had never been a handsome man. Nakedness revealed he’d shrivelled to a wizened twig, all bone and no flesh. It was a wonder he’d managed to lift the shovel. But his wife tended and fussed over him as if he were a god descended from Olympus. It brought tears to her eyes. They’d been married longer than she’d been alive, yet their abiding love for each other was plain to see. A longing for such a love blossomed in her lonely heart. She closed her eyes and conjured a vision of the English soldier sitting by the humble hearth, enjoying her administrations as she washed his broad shoulders, the water dripping…

  “Ready, lass?” Mrs. Grainger boomed, jolting her from her lunacy.

  She blinked. Wrapped in a blanket, the minister lay in front of the fire, snoring softly. His wife stood over him, beckoning. “Dinna fash about him. The house could fall down and he wouldna waken.”

  Pain arrowed through every part of Hannah’s body when she stood to peel off her clay-caked clothing.

  “Drop yon garments here,” the woman commanded, pointing to a spot on the floor near the hearth.

  Vaguely wondering what she would wear if the woman burned her clothes, she obeyed and sat on the stool by the fire. The burning peat’s warmth seeped into her body as Mrs. Grainger cleansed her from head to toe with a soft cloth, then achieved a miracle by scrubbing the muck from her finger and
toenails.

  Half asleep, Hannah drifted into a blurry memory of her mother bathing her as a child, but that was long ago, before her parents drowned in Loch Tay. Mrs. Grainger was obviously a kindly woman with a big heart full of love. Her husband was a lucky man.

  “I’m a lucky man,” the English soldier whispered in her imagination as he trailed the wet washcloth over her breasts…

  “Ye’re a bonnie lass,” Mrs. Grainger declared, steadying her when she nearly fell off the stool. She shoved a nightrail over her head and pulled her arms through the sleeves. The garment was too small, but Mrs. Grainger briskly escorted her to the bed and tucked her in.

  “What about you?” Hannah asked, guilty she was taking a bed away from a woman who must be as desperately tired as she was.

  “I’ll just see to yon shift,” came the reply. “And ’tis a bonnie chemise ye hae.”

  Hannah tried to explain the costly undergarment but her thoughts became jumbled and sleep claimed her.

  ~~~

  Gradually aware it was fully light, Hannah awoke and rubbed her eyes in disbelief when Mrs. Grainger appeared at her bedside with her shift, shawl and chemise. Gone were all traces of the muck. “Too thin,” her guardian angel announced. “Dried in no time by the fire. Ye’ll need summat warmer come winter.”

  She dressed in the alcove, then joined the minister at the small wooden table for a hearty bowl of porridge, though it was well past dawn. She told the couple of her intention to return to Dùn Fhoithear.

  “But if ye’re caught,” Mr. Grainger began with a cautious glance at his wife.

  Guilt assailed her. Returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, might put their lives in jeopardy too. Yet she knew her mission wasn’t complete. Lady Ogilvy had sacrificed much for King Charles. Hannah was confident her uncle would want her to try to aid the Ogilvys.

  After finally receiving the Graingers’ blessing, she set off before noon to retrace her journey.

  Her limbs were still stiff and sore from the misadventures on the rocks and the previous night’s interminable walk, but at least the rain puddles provided some cooling relief to her beleaguered feet. The neatly wrapped parcel of food from the minister’s generous wife was easier to carry than the burden of the basket. She shivered at the memory. There was a danger of encountering English troops on the main roads, the principal reason the coastal path to Kinneff had been deemed a safer route. Nevertheless, if she’d been apprehended…

  The rain eased to a drizzle and she found shelter in the shade of an oak tree where she munched on the bread and crumbly cheese. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the damp bark.

  What if the soldier atop the cliff had challenged her? Would she have dropped her precious burden and fled? She planned to offer her services to help tend the wounded and do what she could to help Lady Ogilvy. Would the soldier recognize her? Had he been curious about what she was doing on the beach? Mayhap it had dawned on him she’d smuggled the Honors away. Even now they might be hunting her. Was she walking into a trap?

  Too many questions.

  Indecision tied her belly in knots throughout the afternoon’s walk. Nearing Dùn Fhoithear, she became aware of the acrid smell of something burning that shouldn’t be. Heart pounding, lungs bursting, she crested the rise and fell to her knees in the wet grass, wailing her disbelief. A grey pall hung over the fortress. The godless English had set the place alight.

  CHILLING DISCOVERY

  Abbott's opinion that the jewels may have been tossed into the sea was ludicrous to Morgan’s way of thinking. He bristled at the unexpected command to search the beach below the cliffs. It was a task befitting the musketeers. However, the infantrymen had been assigned to hunt through the charred ruins of the chapel, a gruesome endeavor he’d rather avoid.

  The beach offered a chance to breathe clean air and see if crabs were indeed to be found, mayhap harvest a few as a reward for his gunnery crew. He’d wager nary a one had ever tasted the meaty flesh of a crustacean and eagerly anticipated the envious glares of the musketeers who wouldn’t be invited to the feast.

  Lady Ogilvy lay in the cells, apparently in the grip of a fever. The men who’d surrendered were also imprisoned there. Abbott had threatened Lord Ogilvy with the firing of the entire castle if the jewels were not found in the ashes of the chapel. He didn’t care a whit if the prisoners were incinerated.

  Morgan deemed it preferable he and his crew be on the beach if that happened. His lads were young and keen. He’d worked hard to mold them into a disciplined unit of which he was proud. Participation in acts of barbarity made men hard and surly. He didn’t like the idea of any of his protégés spitting on women or burning them alive.

  He also took pride in their appearance, insisting on clean uniforms and boots, though manning a cannon often made that challenging. Messing about on the beach wouldn’t be as dirty as job as combing through the residue of the fire and human remains. He removed his helmet, sat on the end of his pallet and shouted for Smythe. “Get my boots off,” he ordered when the lad came running. “We’re commanded to search the beach and saltwater will wreak havoc on the leather.”

  “Sir,” his servant replied.

  It was a daily ritual and Smythe quickly straddled Morgan’s outstretched leg and pulled off the first boot. When both were removed he placed them side by side at the foot of the pallet, as he’d been trained to do.

  Morgan stood, and his sword belt and blade soon lay on the bed beside the helmet. The boy’s eyes widened when he began to unfasten his buffcoat. “You’re not going out without your coat, sir?”

  Morgan chuckled. “And without shirt,” he replied, peeling off both garments and his undershirt, which Smythe folded and placed atop the buffcoat. “Now tell the crew I want them here in two minutes stripped to the waist and barefoot.”

  “Sir,” Smythe replied before exiting the tent.

  Morgan followed and watched his men hurry to obey as soon as they received the order. Their respect was gratifying, especially since he’d achieved it without bullying or brutality, unlike most officers of his acquaintance.

  They assembled in front of him clad only in knee breeches, arms folded, all shivering.

  “It’ll be chilly, lads,” he acknowledged, rubbing his palms together as the wind bit into his skin. “But we’re tough. Right?”

  Muttered agreement greeted his assertion as they made their way down the pebble-strewn path. He wondered how they would fare with the cold. He had meat on his bones, yet he was shivering. He chuckled at the sight of protruding ribs and bony shoulders. Talk about a skeleton crew! It was a painful reality that enlisted men didn’t grow fat on army rations.

  “What we looking for, sir?” Carr asked when they reached the rounded black rocks.

  Morgan had only seen two beaches in his life, but this was more what he imagined the surface of the moon might look like. He almost said crabs, but stopped himself in the nick of time. “Rope, sacking, canvas, even the jewels themselves,” he replied. “Spread out and look for anything out of the ordinary. We’ll have to keep an eye out for the incoming tide. And no horseplay.”

  He watched them pick their way gingerly.

  “Suppose we find a jewel,” Atherton said to his comrades.

  “A ruby,” Carr agreed. “Red as blood, or so I heard tell.”

  It wasn’t long before every one of the six had slipped and fallen several times. They swore, glancing back at him warily in case he’d heard the curses. Soon they found their footing and began poking about in tide pools and generally behaving like a bunch of lads on a seaside outing. Chuckling, he looked across at the base of the cliff beneath the castle. He’d have to watch his step, but that was the most likely place if there was anything to find.

  A whoop of glee caught his attention. Smythe held up a creature, but promptly dropped it with a yelp. “Crab, sir,” he called. “Little bugger nipped me.”

  Apparently, there were crabs to be found, though the tiny thing his signal
boy had held up hardly seemed worth the trouble. Nevertheless, he checked out the tide pools as he crawled his way over the slippery rocks to the cliff, feeling like an ungainly crab himself.

  Perplexed at the amount of effort it had taken to reach the cliff, he finally sat on a boulder to clean tiny pebbles and bits of red seaweed out from between his toes, and looked out to sea. Raucous gulls soared on the breeze. The salty air chased the stench of smoke and burning flesh from his nostrils.

  He inhaled deeply and gazed about, frowning when he noticed the end of a length of rope caught on a rock. He stood and walked across damp sand to retrieve it, wishing with every step he could ignore it and make his way back to the lads.

  But he couldn’t.

  He picked up the end and pulled, coiling the lengths that emerged from the rocks around his arm. The fibres were sodden, but he doubted it had been in the water long. His heart sank when he looked up at the castle high above—the rope was probably long enough.

  His hands trembled as he contemplated heaving the damning evidence into the farthest jagged rocks where it would never be found. The possibility the lass had smuggled the prize away right under his nose hit him like a blow to the belly. The fog lifted from his brain. He alone was perhaps responsible for the failure of the mission to destroy the regalia. The sight of a pretty girl had stirred his loins and blinded him to the truth. He should have been suspicious and raised the alarm.

  “Wotchergot, sir?” Carr shouted.

  It was too late to destroy the evidence. He would have to report his findings to Abbott. However, mentioning the girl would result in disciplinary action, mayhap even demotion, and she was likely long gone. The prospect of his superior getting his hands on her made his belly roil. The notion he would never see her again filled him with regret, which made him realize the wind had chilled his brain as well as his skin. Or more likely it was dread raising gooseflesh on his nape.