by Ashe Barker
“Explain?” Will lifts one expressive dark eyebrow.
“Yes. You remember when we needed help, back in Scotland, and you took me to Elspeth? She was our friend then, our protector. You knew she could be trusted. Well, Henry is the same. He will help us.”
“You mean to tell him everything then?”
“Yes. Everything. It’ll be all right, I know it will.”
“Will he believe us?”
“I’m not sure. Did Elspeth believe us? In the end it didn’t matter; she was your friend and that was enough. She helped us. Henry is my friend, and we can rely on him. I swear it. You need to trust me now, just as I trusted you before.”
They look at each other, and I know some sort of silent communication is going on. Moments pass, then they bring me back into their circle.
Will gives a curt nod. “Right, lass. Let’s talk to him.”
Epilogue
Glen Blair, Scotland, April 2015
Glen Blair is breath-taking. Over the years the house has been enlarged and of course modernised to an extent. According to the tour guide the core section dates back to the fourteenth century and it is still visible, but these days it is flanked by the grandeur of Georgian wings constructed on either side. The stable block has become a tearoom, and the loch at the bottom of the hill where my heroic deeds were performed is now home to a water sports centre. It offers canoeing, rowing, and there’s even water-skiing for the more ambitious with a death wish. Robbie declares it his intention to try that, after he’s pigged out on a cream tea.
I suspect the water-skiing to be a bad idea, but after a year of trying to acclimatise him to life in this century I’ve finally resigned myself to the fact Robbie must be immortal. Nothing else could explain his survival in the face of bungee-jumping, sky-diving, and of course fast cars. His fascination with motor vehicles was forged that first day and has never dimmed. He struggled with the theory test, having only just mastered the most basic of IT skills, but gained his driving licence within weeks of arriving in this century. He bought his first BMW a few days later. Robbie now has a lucrative used car sales business, specialising in high-end classic vehicles. He seems to have a real flair for it, both for the business side of things and a true appreciation of the sensual roadsters he sells. His latest acquisition, an Audi Le Mans Concept is now lording it in the Glen Blair visitors’ car park.
Will also drives, though a more modest Vauxhall suits his requirements well enough. His passion is IT, and more specifically, the use of online resources for historical research. Perhaps inspired by that first day when I was able to pinpoint the details of their fabulous coin collection, he has been fascinated by the potential to bring the past alive using modern technology. At first I feared he might be homesick, perhaps regretting their irreversible decision to leap across four and half centuries into the unknown, but I no longer believe that. Will adores his life here, and lives it to the full. He is passionate about ancient history, and finally managed to overcome his aversion to flying in order to visit Luxor and the Valley of the Kings. Today though we are indulging one of his other passions, that of exploring and researching his roots in Scotland. Robbie is more blasé, but privately I know he shares Will’s fascination for discovering what became of the people they loved back then.
Henry came through for us, as I knew he would. He even seemed to accept our story, though some weeks later he confessed he’d thought that I was mad and Will and Robbie even more deluded. But he liked us, and so he humoured us. He’s been my friend for too long to quibble over details. He took some convincing about our request that he help us to buy false identification documents, and pointed out that this was the sort of purchase more usually associated with terrorists or organised crime. We managed to win him over though, and from there on it was reasonably simple.
Henry sold the first two gold unicorns on our behalf, and raised over nine thousand pounds for them. This was enough to create one Robert McBride, born in Dundee in nineteen eighty-four, educated at St. Andrews and a qualified mechanical engineer. Will emerged from the process as William Sinclair, born in Aberdeen in nineteen eighty-five and a software specialist by trade. From there we were on a roll, and have so far sold just over half the coins, netting over a quarter of a million pounds for them. This has been enough to get us a nice ranch-style bungalow in Cheshire, with a paddock at the back for Will’s horses. He continues to love riding, and insisted we had to live on the ground. So we do.
Elizabeth’s ring is currently residing with experts at Birmingham City University, who have convinced us to allow it to go on public display before putting it up for auction. It has been authenticated, and is expected to raise in excess of half a million pounds.
I had intended that we also sell the other artefacts we brought back with us. My red velvet dress, the men’s fifteenth-century attire too. The plaids would be valuable, I’m sure. And I certainly wanted to be rid of Will’s dagger before he got into real trouble with it. In the end we haven’t needed to raise extra cash and decided to keep all those items, as much for their sentimental value as anything else. The gown was a gift to me from Elspeth and now hangs in my wardrobe, protected by polythene. The plaids too, and the other clothing are safely stored. I confiscated the dagger.
Our new home has three bedrooms, though only one is used for that purpose. The other two are an office, and a guest room for when my mother or sister descend upon us. They find my new domestic arrangements baffling, but can’t fault Will and Robbie’s solicitous care of me.
Even Poppy has come out of it all right. She no longer gets to sleep on my bed, there really isn’t room for her as well, but she now has another friend to snuggle up to. Erik the Siberian husky joined our household when one of Robbie’s customers brought him into the showroom as a six-month-old pup. He’d grown too big and bouncy for the terraced house his owner was reduced to living in in order to fund his passion for petrol-driven glory, so was in need of a new home. Robbie piled the pup into the back of his car and brought him out to Cheshire to be bullied and trained by Poppy. She’s in her element, and Erik is her faithful slave.
I still crew the ambulance, though I suppose strictly speaking I no longer need the cash. It’s more a principle really. And I love my job.
It’s been a year since the momentous, life-changing events of spring two thousand and fourteen. A turbulent, scary, fabulous year as we’ve settled down together, making our home, building new lives. A year in which I’ve come to adore my Scottish heroes more every day, and been cherished by them in turn. It’s been a strange shifting of fortunes, where first they protected and cared for me when I was cast into an alien world, then our roles were reversed as they acclimatised to this century. Now they still dominate in the bedroom, and in most other rooms of our house as well to be fair. And that suits me absolutely fine.
It was Will’s suggestion, naturally, that we come on this trip to Scotland to revisit our roots. He’s been doing some research on line to learn how events transpired back there after we made our escape. He declared himself sorry but not especially surprised at Mary, queen of Scots’ eventual demise, executed as a prisoner of the English. What did surprise them both was the union of the two countries under Mary’s son, James the sixth of Scotland and James the first of England. That the two nations have been united ever since leaves them frankly amazed, but even more astounding to Robbie was the current debate about Scottish independence in the run up to a referendum later this year.
“So, the English would just let the people of Scotland vote on it? And if they don’t want English rule they just have to say so, and it’s all over. No battles? No bloodshed? No sacking of Berwick?”
I nodded my head. “Yes, that about sums it up. And Berwick will remain unmolested. I expect the two countries would take a lot of untangling now as so much is shared, but if Scotland votes yes to independence, they’ll be cut loose.”
“Och, what a shame. Now where’s the fun in that?”
Our tour o
f Glen Blair concluded, we relax and reflect in the stable block tearoom over fruit scones, clotted cream, and a large pot of tea. It was eerie, revisiting the scene of our adventure that seems to have happened so many years ago, yet is as recent as just last year to us three.
The more modern parts of the house are of no real interest to us, but as soon as we set foot in the original hall I felt a shiver run along my spine. I spun around, convinced I would see Elspeth standing behind me, her serene, knowing smile playing on her expressive mouth. Of course, she was not there, not any longer. She’s been dead for centuries.
There were other visitors too, with their pushchairs and their cameras, strolling through the grand hall. We ignored them. I listened instead for the cheerful chatter of Elspeth’s boisterous children as they charged the length of the hall in a game of tag, or of her busy servants scurrying about their duties under Elspeth’s eagle eye.
Her essence permeates every inch of this place, the atmosphere is hers alone.
We followed the tourist arrows upstairs, and I gasped as we entered the chamber which was Robbie’s when we stayed here, and which the three of us shared. The bed was the same one, I remember it most clearly. I have a vivid recollection of the richly embroidered bedspread against my back, and of my freshly spanked bottom rubbing against the rough fabric. It was quite wonderful, a glorious sensation. My pussy clenched, moistened at the mere memory of that incredible night.
I knew by their rapt expressions and occasional murmured curses that Will and Robbie remembered too. And that they also miss Elspeth. She was a true friend to us.
Now, in the tearoom, we pour, stir, spread jam and cream on our scones. We have a guidebook, which includes a potted history of the house. Will is studying it carefully.
“It mentions Duncan in here, and even wee Iain. Apparently the lad came to London with King James when he moved his court there. But there’s not much about Elspeth, apart from the fact that she seems to have lost the Mackenzie jewels.”
Robbie slants a glance at him. “That sounds unlikely. Did she have jewels then?”
“Aye, she was an heiress in her own right, afore her marriage. I was betrothed to her, you’ll recall, so the Sinclairs were acquainted with her wealth as part of the marriage negotiations. The jewels were sapphires in the main, and worth a king’s ransom. Indeed, I believe that was how Elspeth’s unscrupulous Mackenzie forbears acquired them originally. She would not have mislaid them.”
Robbie shrugs. “Perhaps they were stolen. It must have happened after we were here though, else she would have said, surely.”
“Aye, maybe. It doesn’t tell us here.” Will turns over a few more pages. “Plenty of activity in the Jacobite Rebellions though. Apparently Bonnie Prince Charlie was holed up in a secret chamber in the eaves of the house for several weeks.”
I stir my tea. Will has been an avid student of Scottish history during the period after our impromptu departure. I’m not especially surprised though that Elspeth Blair has not figured prominently in those accounts.
“Women were often left out of the history books, unless they did something massive. Or were very powerful.”
“Mmm, Elspeth always seemed right powerful to me,” muses Will.
I wave my scone at him. “You had your chance there, big boy, and you blew it. You’re mine now.”
He grins at me and snatches the scone. It’s in his mouth before I have chance to react. It was my best piece too, loaded with extra cream. I lunge for it, but it’s too late.
“Children, behave. They’ll be after throwing us out.” For once Robbie is the sensible one. “Why don’t we go and find someone who might know about Elspeth. Are there Blairs still living here?”
Will consults the guidebook again. “Yes, the property belongs to Lady Agnes Blair. She’s over ninety years old and apparently lives in an apartment somewhere in the house.”
“We could ask. Maybe we can call and see her, ask if she’s a descendant of Elspeth.” Robbie helps himself to the last scone, rather to my disappointment.
“I doubt she’ll be happy about receiving visits from tourists. We would get slung out if we tried to get into her private quarters.” I hate to throw cold water on their plans, but it’s been my observation that owners of stately homes who have thrown themselves on the mercy of the National Trust rarely want to mingle with the paying customers.
“Aye, perhaps. Pity though…”
“Why do you want to talk to my auntie?”
We all turn in surprise at the childish, haughty voice with a distinctly transatlantic drawl. A small girl stands beside our table. She’s perhaps seven or eight years old, and to describe her as imperious wouldn’t do her justice. A pretty little thing, she glares at us from under bright blond hair arranged in neat plaits.
“Were you talking to us, sweetheart?” Robbie leans down to meet her at eye level.
“You were talking about breaking into my auntie’s flat. I heard you.”
Robbie makes no attempt to deny it. “Your auntie is Lady Agnes, aye? We were just saying we’d like to visit her, that’s all.”
“No one visits Auntie Agnes. Except me and my daddy.”
Robbie’s loops flatten, but he seems ready to accept this. “Aye, well, okay. We’ll not be bothering her then.”
“You could ring her doorbell, and she’d let you in.”
I shake my head. “No, we wouldn’t want to disturb her. If she’s elderly and not very well.”
The child offers me a withering look. I’d bristle if she were just a tiny bit less cute. “She’s not ill, just very old. If you want to go and see her though you’ll have to be quick. She’s going on holiday tomorrow, to America. Come on.” She spins on her heel and marches off in the direction of the door marked ‘staff only.’ We exchange startled looks, then grab our coats and bags. We hurry after her.
The small girl, who introduces herself as Elspeth Margaret Charlotte Blair, leads us through a maze of corridors not usually frequented by the public, I’m sure. On a couple of occasions we are asked if we are lost, or need help, but our miniature guide waves away all such assistance.
“We’re going to see Auntie Agnes. I’ll take them.” No one on the staff challenges her. Even if Lady Agnes turns out not to be a descendant of the Elspeth we knew, this child most definitely is.
We stop in front of a solid door, marked strictly private. Little Elspeth knocks on it. Hard.
Several minutes tick by before we hear a shuffling on the other side, then the sound of the lock turning. The door is opened, to reveal a lined, knowing face. “Hello?”
“Auntie, I’ve brought you some visitors. They were going break in, but I told them we could knock.”
“Ah, yes, most wise. Far better to just knock. Now, who have we here?” She peers at us, seemingly unfazed by the mention of attempted burglary. Her gaze lights on Will. “Do I know ye, lad? You have a familiar look to you.”
Will turns on his dazzling smile. “No, Lady Blair, we haven’t met. We were interested in an ancestor of yours though and wondered if you might spare some time to talk to us? If you’re not busy that is. We understand you’re preparing for a trip and we wouldn’t want to delay you.”
The old lady lets out a sound I’m sure I’ve heard from Robbie before now, usually when one of his precious engines is misfiring. “Ancestors? Far too many bloody ancestors cluttering the place up if you ask me. Can’t move for the buggers around here. Most of ‘em were up to no good most of the time. Who was it you were wanting to rake up now?”
Will supplies the information. “Elspeth Blair. She lived here in the sixteenth century. In the fifteen sixties. One of her sons, Iain, went to London with King James.”
The lined face smoothes out a little. “Ah, yes, our Elspeth. A fine woman, one of the best. Not like the rest of that shower.”
“Indeed,” Will agrees, tactfully not delving any more deeply into the perceived misdeeds of the other bygone Blairs. “She’s not in the guidebook though an
d we were wondering if you might know a little more. She had three children, didn’t she?”
Robbie interrupts. “No, it was four. She was expecting again.”
Will nods. “Right, four.”
Lady Agnes opens her door wider, beckoning us forward. “You need to get your facts straight, laddie. Elspeth had seven bairns in all. Four lads and three girls. And they all lived to adulthood, which is more than most could claim back then.”
“Seven. Right.” The men look at each other. Clearly Duncan must have come home at least a few more times after we left.
“Elspeth was a Mackenzie before she wed, and she married Duncan Blair in around fifteen sixty. Would that be right?” Will is pressing for more, even as we trot after Lady Agnes, ending up in a cluttered sitting room.
I look around in fascination. The place is crammed with family heirlooms, photographs, porcelain figurines, and other knick-knacks. The old lady navigates the chaotic space with remarkable agility for a woman in her nineties. She gestures us to sit down in the overstuffed and somewhat threadbare armchairs set in the middle of all the disarray.
“As to that, I’d need to look it up to be certain, but it would have been about that time, aye.”
“Look it up? You have a family record then? Or do you mean in a history book?”
“I have the family bible about here somewhere. Unless it’s downstairs in one of the glass cabinets.” She bestows a bright smile on our small escort. “Elspeth, dear, would you ask Taylor to bring us some tea, please?”
“Oh, not for us. We just…”
Lady Agnes waves away Robbie’s protest. “You’ll take some tea, dear. And maybe a scone?”
He knows when he’s beat. We all do. As our miniature guide darts out in search of this Taylor individual, we settle down for a chat.
Ninety minutes and two refilled teapots later we get up to leave. Little Elspeth re-joined us and has been chipping in her comments and observations. The child is remarkably well informed about her forbears. Agnes is her great-great-aunt, and it is Elspeth’s family in California who Agnes will be visiting when she leaves for the USA tomorrow.