Highland Crown

by May McGoldrick

  The collapse of embers in the fireplace tore away a barrier in her mind, and suddenly she was back in her house in Edinburgh. Back in the midst of the mayhem of that fateful day in April.

  It had been a day of strikes. Weavers had ordered a shutdown of the city. Shopkeepers shuttered their windows and doors. Protests has been organized in Glasgow and in smaller towns as well.

  The government’s response was direct and brutal. Troops on foot and horse attacked without warning, riding down and beating protesters in the street. After the clashes, eighteen were carried back to the clinic in their house with severe injuries. They hadn’t enough room for all the patients. Bleeding men lay moaning on the floor, in the hall, on the table in the kitchen. Some were not conscious.

  Archibald saw to those wounded lying in the front rooms. Morrigan worked at her father’s elbow. Isabella set the broken leg of a six-year-old boy, an innocent bystander knocked down by the mob trying to disperse and trampled on by the ironshod hoof of a cavalry steed.

  She’d just put the boy upstairs on her own bed when the sound of shouts and pounding outside drew her to the window. Red-coated militia crowded the street in front of the house.

  “Soldiers!” Maisie cried, rushing into the room. “Here. Demanding to be let in!”

  Sharp, clawing fingers of fear took her throat in a viselike grip. Isabella was no fool. She knew what was happening on the streets of the city. She was well aware of the identity of some of the wounded they were tending to downstairs at this very moment. She knew the roles these men were playing in the unrest.

  “Grab your cloak,” Isabella ordered. “Go down the back steps and wait by the kitchen door while I fetch Morrigan. You two must leave the house.”

  As she raced toward the stairs, the sound of the front door splintering from being battered open was followed by shouts. Her feet barely touched the boards as she flew down the steps.

  The front rooms—always a place of order and healing—were a battlefield. Tradesmen and women fought fiercely against the invading soldiers in blue and red jackets. She’d never seen such brawling. More shouting. A gunshot.

  Pushing through the chaos, she found her husband sprawled against a wall, blood spreading across his white shirt and waistcoat. He’d been shot in the chest.

  “Why?” she screamed at the men who continued to pour into the house. She crouched beside Archibald, pressing both hands to the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  “You can’t help me,” he breathed, pushing her hand away. He looked behind Isabella. “Take her from here. Go. Please.”

  Fighting continued all around her, but she worked relentlessly to save her husband’s life. Time stood still, and the air took on a nightmarish hue. Though Morrigan was right beside her, the young woman’s keening cries had a distant, muffled sound. Still, Isabella struggled. But it was too late. Archibald knew. He shuddered, faded, and was gone.

  How she was able to get to the back of the house, pulling Morrigan behind her through the bedlam, Isabella could not later recall. But Maisie was waiting for them in the kitchen, standing before the barred garden door. Before Isabella could pull it open, someone outside began knocking. There was no escape. They were surrounded.

  “Don’t forget what I told ye,” Jean’s barked order cut into the memories and jerked Isabella back into the present.

  She took a deep breath. The knocking was real. The haunting chaos of Edinburgh dissolved in an instant. Isabella peered through dim firelight at the door.

  Jean crooked a finger at her again before pushing to her feet and shuffling toward the entrance.

  Isabella’s stomach clenched. Had they found her? The farther they’d traveled away from Edinburgh, the more days that passed, her worry of getting caught only increased. The accusations of her involvement, the news of the bounty on her head, overtook the travelers and raced ahead of them. Eyes of strangers followed her. She feared being taken at every roadside stop. And the suspicion of her husband’s friends that she’d be a liability to them if she were captured only magnified the fear. Long before they’d reached Inverness, word had spread that both sides wanted her.

  The door creaked, and the old woman put her shoulder against it to stop the tempest from shoving it open wide. Jean nodded to whoever was outside and stepped out into the storm, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Isabella left the sewing on the chair and moved away from the fire. Near the foot of the cot sat her bag. Her faithful and courageous Edinburgh housekeeper had hidden the three women in her son’s dank, airless dwelling in Cooper’s Close in Canongate and delivered her medical instruments a few days after the attack on their house.

  The door was the only entrance into the cottage, and Isabella was trapped. Two windows cut through the thick walls. A stiff leather hide hung low on the wall near the fire, and she wondered if it might provide access to a woodshed or an animal pen. She picked up her cloak and bag but stopped.

  It was foolish to think about running. Even if she were able to get out that way, where would she go? She didn’t know the country around her. Her sister and stepdaughter were somewhere in Inverness. Their next meeting was to be aboard a sailing ship bound for Halifax. But even that part of their plan was vague. The only thing Isabella had any confidence in was that John was coming back for her.

  All of their futures lay in the hands of John’s colleague Walter Scott. Sir Walter Scott now. A generous man, he claimed he needed to repay a debt to Isabella, using his own funds and risking his own liberty.

  The door pushed open again and Isabella stood still, holding her breath and letting it out only when she saw Jean come back inside alone. The old woman latched the door behind her.

  “Someone knows I’m here?”

  “They don’t,” Jean said, going back to her place by the fire. “And that’s all the better for ye.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Nothing that concerns ye.”

  The answer didn’t make her feel less anxious. She was caught in a blind alley and recalling what she’d gone through only reinforced the helplessness of her position.

  “Is there anything I need to know? Or be worried about?”

  “Aye. Plenty.” Jean looked sharply at her. “But no matter what happens, ye gave me yer word ye won’t be leaving this cottage.”

  “I shan’t. I have nowhere to go. But what do you mean ‘no matter what happens’? Do you expect trouble?”

  “Ye ask too many questions,” she snapped.

  “With good reason,” Isabella replied, softening her tone. “I’ve been through a great deal of trouble, and none of it I asked for.”

  The old woman paused, keen grey eyes studying Isabella’s face. “This storm is blowing hard from the north. When that happens, we got to be prepared for what the sea gives up. That’s why someone was at my door.”

  A shipwreck, she thought. How the villagers lived was none of her business. She put down her bag.

  “The sea is a harsh mistress,” Jean continued. “And seafaring folk must ply their trade, no matter the weather. The sea takes, and the sea provides; that’s the way of things. Now, ye go to bed.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Come as the winds come, when

  Forests are rended;

  Come as the waves come, when

  Navies are stranded …

  —Sir Walter Scott, “Pibroch of Donald Dhu”

  The Highland Crown. His home. His pride and joy. His dearest possession after twenty years at sea. But there was no saving her. His beloved ship was lost.

  Stinging, wind-whipped water—chill and sharp as ice—lashed at Cinaed Mackintosh’s face as he squinted through the rain at the mortally wounded brig he’d sailed through a dozen storms as fierce as this one. He lived a good life aboard her. She had the speed to outrun many a ship with far more canvas. She could maneuver in the tightest spots and in the highest winds. She needed it, for they’d operated on both sides of the law. He’d been fortunate indeed in his years as
master of this vessel. But his good luck had run out the moment Highland Crown was driven up onto the godforsaken rocks of this Scottish coast.

  Cinaed’s eyes burned from the brine. His ship was lying nearly on its side. The masts had been reduced to splinters, and the wind and crashing surf continued to drag the hull over the jagged reef, tearing huge holes in the timbers and threatening to tumble her into the wild green maelstrom of the sea. He peered toward the patches of black shoreline that appeared like momentary rends, opening and quickly closing in the shroud of dark mist enveloping his vessel.

  Two longboats bearing his crew had already disappeared into the storm. The booming sounds of rollers crashing in the distance told him reaching shore was no certain feat.

  The ship shuddered and groaned as a wall of water struck and washed over everything, briefly submerging Cinaed and his second mate, a former gunner, who clung to a torn ratline. A handful of men, the last of his crew, struggled nearby to keep the third longboat from swamping.

  Not even a day ago, they’d been sailing up from Aberdeen to Inverness. When the storm struck, it hit fast and hard.

  It pained him to do what needed to be done now. In a secluded inlet east of Inverness, Cinaed was to deliver his cargo, but that plan would never be played out. On the other hand, he couldn’t allow those goods to fall into the hands of just anyone. The political sympathies of the folk living along this coast and across the Highlands were never a certainty, and he didn’t want any of the consequences of discovery to fall on his crew.

  “Burn it,” he ordered. “You know what to do.”

  His second mate nodded grimly and climbed through the hatch leading into the bowels of the ship.

  Not long after he disappeared, another watery surge hammered at the boat. The Highland Crown lifted and then dropped, breaking the keel like a wrestler’s back. Cinaed held tight to the tattered lines. Worry for his man pushed him toward the hatch. The entire vessel moved again as a section of the bow of the brig heaved, broke off, and began to slide into the sea. Around him, lines snapped and planking exploded like dry kindling. Then, the bow was gone, and only a few casks and crates and splintered timbers remained to mark her passing.

  He knew it was only a matter of time before the rest of the ship would follow, spilling its cargo into the churning, grey waves. He didn’t want to lose another man. Reaching the hatch, he called down into the dark recesses of the hold. The fury of the storm obliterated any chance of an answer.

  He dove through the hatch, moving swiftly through the lower decks in search of his gunner. Cinaed found him, his leg trapped against a bulkhead by one of the very casks he’d set out to destroy. The mate’s eyes flashed white with terror. He was holding a lantern at arm’s length.

  Hanging the light from a beam, Cinaed found a pole and managed to lever him free. Half carrying, half dragging the man, he made his way back to the deck.

  “Help him,” he shouted at the sailors when they’d reached the submerged gunwale. Another wave crashed over them, but the ship held steady, for the moment at least. Standing in the froth, he handed the gunner into the longboat. “Cast off and get clear. If she rolls, you won’t have time.”

  “Come with us, Captain,” the helmsman shouted through the wind.

  The ship moved with the grinding shriek of wood on stone.

  “Do as I say.”

  He waited until the longboat cast off the lines. What was left of the Highland Crown now joined the tumult of the storm in trying to stop him from reaching his destination. A railing collapsed and tumbled over him, nearly taking him with it into the sea. He climbed over rigging and ducked a spar that swung at his head like a club before he plunged through the hatch.

  The lantern swung where they’d left it. With one last look at his cargo, he lit the fuse. With a hiss, the sparks shot toward the kegs, undulating like a fiery serpent. He had no time to consider the loss of all that he’d scratched and fought and bled to build in his life.

  The longboat was battling the waves on the leeward side when he reached the open deck. Cinaed leaped into the churning sea. The chill of the water knocked the breath from his lungs. A wave drove him under.

  As the sea enfolded him in her arms, the pain of his loss was a dirk driven into his heart. He was not a rich man. He was not born to wealth with a university education or a bought commission or a loving patron ready to cushion his fall. He’d been rejected by the only family he knew. And now the winds of ill-fortune had dashed Cinaed upon a stony shore, ripping from him his home, his life, his future. Beaten back from all he’d gained, his path had been decimated. Was he strong enough to start again?

  He turned his gaze up toward the heaving froth of the sea and clawed his way upward. Bursting through, he swam toward the longboat.

  Eager hands reached out to help him clamber on board.

  “Row, lads,” he ordered, climbing into the stern. “All you’ve got now.”

  Behind him, the Highland Crown exploded in a rapid-fire series of blasts, and pieces of the vessel rained down on the longboat. Cinaed stood beside the helmsman and looked back at his precious ship. What was left of the hull on the reef was on fire, and black smoke billowed above her.

  A knot formed in his throat as he watched her burn. Then, lifted by the storm surge, the ship washed off the reef and sank from sight. Planks and rigging were all that remained, burning as they tossed on the tumultuous waves.

  Cinaed tore his eyes away and turned to the task at hand, getting his men safely to shore. Through the murk and heavy mist, a rocky point appeared, jutting out from some unseen mainland.

  “What’s behind us is gone,” he shouted above the wind. “Row hard, men. The shore is near.”

  CHAPTER 3

  With head upraised, and look intent,

  And eye and ear attentive bent,

  And locks flung back, and lips apart,

  Like monument of Grecian art,

  In listening mood, she seemed to stand,

  The guardian Naiad of the strand.

  —Sir Walter Scott, “Lady of the Lake,” Canto I, stanza 17

  The loud bang shocked her awake, and Isabella sat bolt upright.

  Looking about her, she remained where she was for a few moments and tried to clear away the filmy webs of confusion. She couldn’t quite grasp her surroundings. The place was unfamiliar, and she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here or why she was here. It was like a dream she could not escape.

  But was the bang part of her dream?

  She blinked and tried to clear her head.

  Jean, John Gordon’s aunt. Isabella was in the Highlands, in the old woman’s cottage. The driftwood fire on the hearth had burned down to embers, casting a flickering glow over the floor and the walls and the humble furnishings.

  The door swung hard, driven by a gust of wind, and banged once more against the scarred table by a shuttered window. A briny gust swept in through the open door, spattering the stone floor with rain that glistened like drops of amber.

  Fanned by the sweep of salt air, the meager flames leapt up momentarily, and she glanced around the small cottage.

  The woman was nowhere to be seen.

  A quick series of explosions propelled Isabella to her feet. The blast was close, and she hurriedly yanked on her boots. Throwing on her cloak, she crossed to the door and peered out into the rain. Here on the Highland coast, the night sky retained the dismal grey hue of twilight throughout the summer, never yielding completely to the blackness of more southern climes. Even the storm clouds failed to blot out the dim light. But a second sun was burning brightly on the water. She stepped out onto the hard-packed sand and stared through the windswept rain at the wild scene before her.

  Not a half mile from the stony beach, nearly cut off from view by heavy mists, the remains of a burning ship lay on a reef. Flames and smoke rose high in the sky.

  Smatterings of villagers lined the black stretch of strand, pointing toward the wreck. A few men stood on a jagged ridge of
rock projecting out into the raging surf. The attention of Jean’s neighbors was riveted on the events offshore, but Isabella moved cautiously to a vantage point on the shadowy side of a line of large boulders leading down into the sea. From here, she could see and not be discovered.

  A thick swirling cloud obscured the reef for a few moments, lifting just as a wave carried the burning vessel off the rocks. Shouts and curses peppered the air as the ship went under. Isabella had no experience with shipwrecks, but she guessed the sinking was a hard blow to the scavengers waiting on shore.

  Before long, villagers began to wade out to gather the few casks and parts of the ship being carried in ahead of the crashing rollers. Working together, they dragged their meager treasure up onto the beach.

  Isabella recalled that a visitor had come to Jean’s door earlier. They must have seen the ship hit the reef. They knew this was coming. The sea takes, and the sea provides; that’s the way of things.

  Through the mist, she espied a single longboat foundering near the rocky point. It disappeared into a trough, and when it rose again, the boat was riding lower in the water. Wind and waves were buffeting it about.

  A shot rang out from the rugged point.

  Isabella gasped and took a couple of steps forward as a man in the longboat fell backward, tumbling out and disappearing into the surf. From where she stood, she could not see who fired the musket, but it was clear to her that the villagers were determined to scavenge what they could. They wanted no survivors to muddy their claim. And they would not brook the existence of any interfering witnesses either.

  Pressing a fist to her stomach, Isabella watched the longboat fight to turn away from the rocks. A moment later, it disappeared into the mists.

  Villagers continued to pull wreckage from the water, but she looked on with unseeing eyes. Lost in thought as the rain beat down on her, she considered the absurd naiveté of the life she led. Isabella had devoted her entire existence to healing people. But in the real world, men regularly ended each other’s lives without hesitation or regret. She’d seen it. In Edinburgh, her own husband had died from a bullet fired by some soulless man in uniform. Even as they ran from the house, she’d seen the bodies on the streets, ridden down by the very men who were supposed to protect them. And she’d seen it here. Now.