by Susan King
She slid him a curious glance. He halted the gig and jumped down to walk around. "Well, Mrs. Blackburn, since the crust of this hill is already broken, let us see what sort of pie it is." He grasped her by the waist and lifted her down. She very much liked the iron press of his fingers against her waist, and she gripped his forearms for support as he lowered her.
"We walk up the hill from here," he said. "It's easier than taking the gig until the road is cut and topped. Tell me," he added, glancing at John, who was leashing Pog to a nearby tree. "Will the climb be difficult for your brother?"
"It may be, but he is doing better lately. He will rest if his leg bothers him. Thank you for your concern."
"And you? Will you have any difficulty?"
"None. This way?" Gathering her skirts, glad she had worn sturdy boots, she took the dirt pathway quickly. Above, along the zigzagging course, she saw the raw cut in the hillside.
"The highest of these hills is a thousand feet at the summit," Aedan said, walking behind her, John a little farther back along the earthen path. "You can see where we halted work beneath that rocky cliff, about three hundred feet up."
"Hopefully your roadwork will resume shortly," John said.
"That depends on your sister, sir." Aedan slid her a glance.
She frowned without reply and hurried ahead. A little farther up, she stopped to gaze at the jagged pile of rocks.
Seeing Walter Carriston's books in Dundrennan's library had reminded her again of her uncle's controversial theories concerning Celtic Scotland. Sir Edgar Neaves had hinted that she might even find something to support her uncle's research. If that were true, then her ailing uncle could regain his tarnished reputation before he died.
She felt a surge of hope, or perhaps only wishful thinking. Her work with Uncle Walter had been fascinating and rewarding in many ways, yet disheartening in the last year, for he had endured the academic ridicule of his dearly held ideas, and it had affected his health. If her work here revealed a Pictish presence, her uncle's reputation would benefit.
Her eagerness renewed, she climbed faster, pulling ahead of the men. As she walked, she lifted the hems of her gray woolen skirt and four petticoats, including one of red flannel that flashed fiery color with each step.
The path cut through the heathered slopes and led toward the site of the blasting. Turf had peeled back, exposing raw earth and sheer rock. Despite her sturdy boot soles, Christina nearly stumbled on the stone-littered path.
"Be careful," Aedan MacBride said, coming up behind her. He extended his hand to help her jump a mucky puddle. His fingers were firm on her gloved hand. "The mud can be very bad here after a rain. We made drainage ditches, but a fierce storm could start a mud slide. One more reason to finish this road quickly." He turned to her brother. "Mr. Blackburn?"
John had stepped off the path to sit on a boulder. He held a small sketch book. "I'll come up soon. I want to sketch some landscape and make color notes on the light."
Christina looked at Aedan. "He may need to rest," she murmured. "He lost some muscle from the gunshot wound and lacks full strength in that leg. He never complains outright, but it still causes him some pain."
He nodded, frowning. "The hill is quite steep and rough from here on, madam. Would you like to rest, as well?"
"No," she said decisively. The sunlight was strong, but her veil obscured her sight. She pushed the netting back and twisted it behind her hat, fastening it with a long hatpin.
"You could command armies with a weapon like that," Aedan commented.
She sent him a little glare and resumed her steady ascent. Each breath came a little dearer now, and she cursed the whalebone stays beneath her blouse and jacket, although she was glad for her shorter walking skirt and her tough-soled brogans, which allowed her to take sure strides.
Aedan went ahead and reached out a hand in assistance. He kept hold of her gloved hand to help her along the steep, winding track, his grip firm and pleasant. When he let go, she missed that comfort.
"Why does the road curve like this?" she asked, putting a hand to her side, pausing to draw in a few breaths.
"To allow for the steep grade of the hill. The road cannot go straight up and over. We cut it this way, so that it rises a little, then swings that way, rising again"—he gestured as he spoke—"gradually moving up and then down the hillside. That way the ride is not so steep in a carriage."
"Going on foot, I feel as if I have climbed a veritable mountain," she said, still breathless. "Why not cut the road around the base of the hill?" She looked down. The slope fell steeply away from the edge of the path, shored up by boulders.
"Do you see that wide burn on the moor below? It cuts close to the hill, so the lower slope can be very boggy. And the land on other side of the burn no longer belongs to my estate, and we could not obtain the owners' permission. They prefer to keep it for hunting privileges."
"You said the government could take precedence in the case of a parliamentary road."
"The owner of the lease happens to be the queen," he said. "They rent the land out for hunting. So we could not argue the rights of the road for our project."
"I see. Oh, Tam took us this way in the carriage," she said, looking around. "The view is stunning. Look—there's an eagle!" She pointed.
They stood so high on the slope that the great bird glided beneath them, the sun bright on its outspread wings. Below, the moorland spread out like a golden quilt, meeting the heathered hillsides, the sky above sweeping and clear. Christina smiled, sighing with admiration at the beautiful landscape.
"Aye, it's lovely and peaceful," Aedan agreed, watching her. "I came here often as a lad. It is one of my favorite spots."
"Then why take blasting powder to it?"
"Black powder, madam," he corrected. "There was a great deal of rock, so we had little choice. And we thought there would be nothing of historic value here, for there was no sign of anything."
"My uncle always believed something might be found on Cairn Drishan," she said. "There are ancient ruins elsewhere in these Strathclyde hills."
"My father shared that hope."
"But you do not," she said astutely.
"Not particularly. Can you continue, Mrs. Blackburn, or do you need to abandon your stays?" He lifted a brow.
Her cheeks grew hot. "That is none of your concern."
He smiled in answer and offered his hand again. She took it and they moved upward, soon reaching a large cluster of rocks, which they clambered over. The wind fluttered Christina's hat ribbons against her cheek and billowed her skirt.
"Careful, lass. My crew has not yet cleared all the rubble from the explosion. I must ask you never to come up here alone. It is not safe." He pulled her upward.
She stepped up beside him and faced him. "I am not helpless, sir. I would do fine here by myself."
He stopped to glare down at her. "Christina Blackburn," he said sternly, "it is dangerous up here, and you will not come here alone. Either I will come with you, or some of my men will do so. Never alone. Is that understood?" He frowned, his brows straight and black over blue eyes of a brilliant clarity.
She considered arguing, then nodded. "I understand."
His hand tightened on hers as he drew her over more rocks. "Come up. Good," he said. "And here it is."
She looked around, then stared.
Dark with age, irregular in shape, the stones upthrust like teeth in a monstrous jaw, savage, primeval, but with underlying structure. They had not been shaped by nature or blasting powder, but by tools, and had been stacked in a deliberate pattern. Many had fallen out of the set, resulting in a jumble.
She released Aedan's hand and walked forward, heart pounding. The wall was in shambles, black with age, strangely glossy. Beyond its staggered line, she saw a gaping hole in the hillside, like a mouth opening to show fierce teeth and bones.
"Oh," she said. She dropped to one knee, touched a few stones. "Oh, my."
"I hope you are not disappoint
ed, having come so far."
Neither disappointment nor thrill described her reaction. Dismay was closer to the mark. Unable to make sense of the puzzle of stones at first, she did not know what to say. Aware that she was touted as an expert, she hid her uncertainty. She had expected a ruin, but not utter chaos.
After a moment she pulled a small notebook from her reticule and knelt on the cushion of her skirts to make quick notes and sketches. Then she rose to her feet. MacBride moved toward her, stepping over the toppled barrier.
"Be careful," Aedan warned behind her. "It's unstable."
Nodding, she made more sketches, trying to puzzle out the relationship of turf and stone. How long had this been here, and what sort of structure was it? Were there clues buried in the earth here? Toeing the dirt, she turned over a few small stones.
Kneeling, she traced the stones of the tumbled-down wall with her hand. Something in their appearance was very odd, but she could not think what it was. She frowned, examining them.
"No cache of gold, as you see," Aedan said. "Little to recommend further investigation. I'm sorry."
She hefted a small, dark stone thoughtfully in her hand. "But this place may indeed be very old. My uncle's research on the Celtic tribes in this area indicates that there was a settlement in the area of Dundrennan."
"Well, there is a hill fort a few miles from here."
"I know. And where there is a fort, there are often homesteads in the vicinity. I will not dismiss this pile of stones out of hand just yet."
"Not yet?"
"Not just yet." She looked up and saw him frown. Wind lifted his hair, fluttered his shirt and gray vest, for he had left his jacket in the gig. Muscular, handsome, intriguing and secretive, he seemed part of this place, somehow—strong and bold, earth-wrought and mysterious. Even his black hair and blue eyes, his black clothing and gray vest, seemed to blend harmoniously with the iron-gray stones that surrounded him.
"Mrs. Blackburn, do not be misled by your ideals and by your great desire to find something here."
"Sir?" She stood, heart pounding, but she reminded herself that he could not know her hopes for her uncle's work.
"There are no miracles to be found here, no treasure, no ancient tombs waiting to be discovered. This is most likely a collapsed black house, covered by a landslide decades ago. Luckily it was deserted before then, for we saw no bodies among the stones. I beg your pardon for mentioning so unpleasant a topic."
"But I would be fascinated to find an ancient body entombed here. It would yield wonderful information about the past. If you wish to persuade me to abandon this task, or if you doubt a woman can be of use here, you are mistaken."
He narrowed his eyes. "I do not care if Sir Edgar sent man, woman, or bogle to examine this hill. Surely you can tell a black house from a hill fort."
"I can tell you, sir, this is no black house," she snapped.
"A shieling, then. Just a lot of old, dirty stones to be moved out of the way."
"I am no archaeologist—that is a fairly new science—but I will not dismiss this as unimportant. Not yet," she repeated. "I mean to assess it carefully."
"Be as careful as you like. Just be quick about it."
She stood, brushing off her hands. "What is the rush?"
"The road must be completed by mid-October. Your assessment must take only a few days at most."
"You wish to be rid of me."
He inclined his head, and she could see that his temper and impatience were sparking hot. "You and your brother are welcome to stay at Dundrennan as long as you need. I only ask that you be efficient about your work, and see quickly how insignificant these stones are, so I can get on with my work."
"I will not be rushed, nor can you tell me what I should think about this place," she said furiously.
"I would simply appreciate your... sensible conclusion, madam." He stepped backward. "We must go, if you please."
"If you please, I will stay for a while. Go about your day. I will be perfectly safe here with my brother."
"Well." He frowned. "My crew is working on the moor on the other side of this hill, and I will be there if you need anything. I will leave the gig for you and Mr. Blackburn, and take the horse. Mrs. Gunn expects you for luncheon at one o'clock. Good day, Mrs. Blackburn."
"Before you leave, there is a matter to discuss." She knew he would not like it, but that suited her well just now. "You know all construction on the hill must cease for now."
"I am aware," he said curtly.
"Sir Edgar wants the nearby roadwork halted until he can come here to make his determination. That includes any work on the moor, if it is within a mile or so."
He narrowed his eyes. "That is ridiculous."
"The use of black powder or machinery could set up vibrations that would disturb this fragile find."
"There is no find," he said bluntly. "That is slate and sandstone behind you, not bone china, for the love of God!"
"There is no need to swear. You are a civil engineer. Do not pretend to dismiss the danger of tremors. As for the rest, the law of treasure trove dictates—"
"What treasure?" he demanded. "Are you now judge and jury to dictate the future of my career and my home, as well? If I lose Dundrennan because of—" He stopped, turned away, as if holding his temper and protecting some private thought.
"Lose Dundrennan?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing." He frowned. "Mrs. Blackburn, this road must go through, no matter what you find here." He turned on his heel and walked away, nimbly clearing the rocks until he disappeared around the sloped curve.
* * *
"Aedan MacBride may indeed be right, Christina," John said later. "This may be one great, useless pile of stones." He sat on a boulder, having slowly climbed the rest of the hill to join her after Aedan left. "But I suspect you will not surrender to him on that point."
Christina surveyed the confusion of rocks around her, feeling discouraged. Realizing the enormity of her task, she felt almost ill. MacBride's angry outburst bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She understood his dilemma, but she could not give in to his will. "Sir Aedan wants me to dismiss this, but I must continue."
"Aye, you must, over and above treasure trove law." John nodded. "You hope to find something to support Uncle Walter's theories."
She nodded. "There must be some clue here—we are in the right area, and this might well be from an early century." Bending, she picked up a broken bit of the dark rock that had tumbled from the ruined wall. Frowning, she turned it in her hand. Something eluded her, something she could not quite pinpoint in her mind.
"So you do not think this is a black house, as Sir Aedan suggested?"
She shook her head, examining the rock thoughtfully. "I do not agree with him," she said. "I just have a feeling."
John nodded and returned his attention to his sketchbook. Christina turned, and a fast, cool wind whipped over the hills, rippling her veil, her ribbons, blowing her skirts back. She surveyed the chaotic rubble all around her, then looked out over the rounded, bleak hills.
Something was here in this place, something of importance. She felt it, knew it, but could not yet define it. A trace, an artifact, even the smallest inscription or carving might mean the difference between a simple ruined wall and a historically significant ruin.
Years ago, the Reverend Walter Carriston had translated documents that had referred to a specific location, a place close to Dundrennan, and had hinted at a connection with Arthur, the great warrior-king who had become the stuff of magnificent medieval legend but who had apparently lived during the sixth century. Her uncle's discovery of some early references to Arthur had become the basis for his life's work.
Carriston had strived to prove that King Arthur, a warrior-king in a warlike society long before the Middle Ages, had links to Celtic Scotland—indeed, might even have come from Scotland himself.
His theories had been ill received, and he had suffered in reputation and health.
But he had never doubted his conclusions. Christina respected her uncle and his work and believed that his theories were based on historical truth.
The wall on Cairn Drishan gave her hope. She was certain that it was exceedingly old. Turning the stone in her hand, looking at its glossy, greenish black surface, she nodded. Indeed, very old.
King Arthur at Dundrennan. And what if Dundrennan's own legendary princess had been the great king's contemporary in history? A find in support of that, her uncle's most cherished conclusion, would be astonishing. It would change understanding of Arthurian scholarship. It could even alter the interpretation of the Arthurian legends.
No wonder so many scholars rejected Carriston's theory. His work threatened what they regarded as gospel truth, that the Arthurian tales had roots in the Welsh, English, and Cornish traditions. Scholarship allowed that the historical Arthur, the sixth-century warrior briefly mentioned in early chronicles, may have crossed into Scotland to conquer it.
But her uncle had suggested that Arthur came of a Scottish Celtic tribe himself. A scandalous, unacceptable suggestion, despite his convincing evidence.
"If I could find some material proof of his theory," Christina said thoughtfully, looking around, "his work would be redeemed. The truth is here somewhere. I know it."
"You are very stubborn." John got to his feet and came to stand beside her. "A stubborn nature is a fine asset, but do not demand the impossible from yourself."
She looked at John. "I must. You know I must."
He sighed and after a moment nodded. "Well, if you are so determined, I will help you if I can. But you'll have to find your proof before Sir Edgar arrives to take this over from you."
She nodded. "I suppose I should ask Sir Aedan for a shovel, then." She laughed bitterly. "He'll either expect me to dig here myself—or he will refuse me even the loan of a shovel and just tell me that this is unimportant and I should be on my way. But it is important, John." She looked at the little piece of rock in her hand. "I'm sure of it."
"I don't think he's that much of a Mr. Scrooge. And besides, he does have a full work crew.... Do you suppose he's using all of them down there?" He smiled a little.