“And you said yes?” Daisy looked in at the silver key in the box, not daring to touch it.
“I thought maybe you’d like to take it to the man of your dreams.” She grinned, flicking on the kettle. “If you’re safe to drive of course. Split the profits right down the middle.”
“Hang on, where did you read about these keys?”
“I’ll dig the book out in a minute. You need to decide if you’re going because it’s got to be there by tonight if we want the full amount.”
“That doesn’t give me much time to recover.”
“No but it does give you a chance to go see if Jock MacGregor really is having a party tomorrow. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“He’s not having a party, Tabby. It was a dream.”
“Sure it was. Now you make the tea and I’ll go look for that book.”
Ten minutes later they were sat together on the sofa. In Tabby’s hand was a yellowed and battered book with a plain black front cover. Mysteries of the Highlands was written in bold print on the front. She was reading from the contents as Daisy sipped at her tea.
“The ancient Highland Chronicles spoke of six keys forged by the druids long before the clans came into being. So far, two keys have been discovered and studied by students of the bizarre. The other four have yet to be found but many tales still swirl from those times.
Legends tell of the keys’ ability to allow travel through time and space. In some tales the keys unlock doors to different locations depending on who possesses them. In one thirteenth century volume, Morgana of the Orkneys wrote of Clan MacGregor and their connection to the keys.
She said the clan was descended from one of the first druids. He was responsible for imbuing the keys with their magical properties and it is through his clan-line that the blood of the magical passes, drawing the keys toward them like steel is drawn toward a magnet.
Cam MacGregor wrote in his private diaries of a silver key marked with an M, saying it was how he met his wife who was, quote, not of this time.”
“Any drawings?” Daisy asked, becoming interested despite her inner sceptic.
“Not here but listen to this. Cam’s son, Eddard also wrote of a key that was the reason he met his wife a generation later. He spoke of a silver key marked with an M, wishing it was still in his possession so he could leave it as an heirloom for his son, Jack, known to all as wee Jock.” Tabby closed the book. “Maybe that’s the Jock you met?”
“Come on. That’s a book about fairy stories from the Middle Ages. You don’t seriously believe it all, do you?”
“I’m not saying I do. I’m just saying it’s interesting reading, isn’t it? Listen, Jock apparently lost all the clan’s money in the thirteenth century. Then in the 1980s, someone dug it all up.”
“Dug all what up?”
“The money. He’d hidden it under the flagstones in the kitchen and then something must have happened before he could go back and get it. Some metal detectorist found it about ten years ago, made a fortune.”
“Why would he hide the money?”
“It doesn’t say. It just says that was when the clan fell into ruin, the castle too. It’s never been the same since.”
“That’s really weird. Is there anything else?”
“That’s about it for the MacGregors. There’s a thing here about a barefoot man attacking the clans. Want to hear about that?”
“Maybe later.”
Tabby put the book down. She didn’t finish reading it that day. When she finally did, weeks later, she was astonished to find out just what Jock MacGregor wrote about the third silver key and about who it was that delivered it directly into his bedchamber.
Chapter Eight
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Jock asked, shoving Alan up against the wall. “Where’s she gone?”
“I dinnae ken, my laird,” Alan replied, fighting to free himself, his feet kicking at thin air as Jock slid him up the wall. “Please, I beg you, let me free.”
“What have you done to her?”
“I swear I speak the truth. She was right there and then…”
“Then what?”
“Then she just wasn’t.”
Jock looked Alan deep in the eye. He was telling the truth, though the truth made no sense at all. Slowly his grip relaxed.
Alan straightened his tunic. “Now will you let me speak to the priest? Who but a witch could vanish from an infirmary in the middle of the night?”
“Call out the guards. Wherever she is, we will find her.”
The hunt lasted most of the night but it proved pointless. She’d vanished without trace. Lachlan checked the gates. They’d been locked and barred since sunset. If she was out of the infirmary, she hadn’t gone far. She had to be somewhere in the castle and yet not a trace of her was found.
Jock didn’t understand how it was even possible. He had been outside the infirmary with Lachlan the entire time. Alan had been in the preparation room. There was no other exit than the door. The windows were too narrow for a person to fit through. How could she have vanished?
He was no closer to an answer when the sun rose. He gave notice for the search to continue but he was becoming increasingly doubtful she would be found.
What if Alan was right? What if she was a witch after all?
He skipped breakfast, not wanting to have to make small talk while his head whirled with thoughts of her.
Lachlan found him in the bowels of the keep, unlocking dungeon doors that hadn’t been used for decades. “She’s not likely to be down here,” Lachlan said. “Unless she had her own set of keys.”
“I will find her,” Jock replied, kicking his way through a pile of rotted straw. “She must be somewhere.”
“And you should get some sleep. You have a clan to look after, remember?”
“Aye.” He turned and looked Lachlan in the eye. “And you were given orders to hunt for her.”
Lachlan’s slouch vanished. He stood upright for a moment and looked as if he was about to say something. “Aye, my laird,” he said instead, heading out of the dungeon, his footsteps slowly fading away.
Jock kept going until he had searched all the spaces he could think of. Wherever she had chosen to hide, it was a good place. He thought he knew every inch of the place. But he clearly didn’t know as much as he thought.
She was gone.
He gave up at noon. Wherever she was, she was staying there until she chose to come out. He was coming out of the kennels when he saw Robin laughing at the far side of the courtyard, slapping a serving girl on the back with far too much enthusiasm. The girl managed a smile but it fell away as soon as he was gone.
Jock looked at Robin as he headed into the keep. Should he just go over and drag him down to the dungeons? Force a confession out of him?
No, that wouldn’t be wise. It would assuage the anger inside him but no doubt Robin had someone working for him. If they found out he’d been imprisoned, accused of theft of the treasury, they’d no doubt have instructions to get rid of any incriminating evidence just in time for the king’s arrival and then what would Jock look like? A laird who was losing control of his clan.
Better to find the proof first, then accuse him. That way he couldn’t worm his way out of it using that silver tongue of his.
Jock took a deep breath, pushing Daisy out of his mind. It was not an easy task but he managed it with a dunk of his head in the nearest trough. Coming up with water running down his face, he looked around him. Life in the castle was continuing as it had done for generations. None of them knew the turmoil that was taking place in front of their eyes.
If Jock didn’t find out where the money had gone from the treasury they’d know soon enough. It pained him to think of the clan scattered by the king.
Would they fight? He shook his head. They were a strong people but they were not fools. You could not fight the king’s army and hope to win. He had the English, the Normans and the Norsemen on his side.
Perha
ps not forever but for now uneasy truces gave him a strength in numbers Jock could never hope to match. The MacGregors would be slaughtered and the clan would be gone forever.
He thought of his father and his father before him. They had fought long and hard to save the clan from numerous external threats. He must save them from this one. All he had to do was go and talk to Eddard. He cursed himself for his reluctance, clenching his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms as he marched across the courtyard.
Eddard and Morag had the top floor of the keep to themselves. Twenty years earlier there had been a pigeon loft and water tower up there. Dozens of laborers and masons had worked for five years to convert it into a living space.
Jock had thought it was for him and his future bride but upon completion, Eddard had slapped him on the back and told him he was laird now and would sleep in the laird’s quarters.
He could remember that day well. The shock he had felt at being given control of the clan. The pride that swelled in him knowing that his parents considered him ready to lead them all.
He had taken the laird’s chamber gladly. Eddard and Morag had moved into the top floor, the pigeons relocated into the south tower, the water tank moved into the north, an ingenious system of pipes ensuring it could still reach the sink in the chapel in time for the feast day services.
Climbing the stairs past his own bedchamber, he paused, looking down the corridor. That was where she had appeared from nowhere. Was it possible she had gone back there?
A quick glance inside was enough to disappoint him. Everything was how he’d left it last night. She was gone.
Stop thinking about her, he told himself. Think about the clan.
He made his way up the next flight of stairs, stopping at the top to speak to the guard. “My laird,” the man said, nodding as he got to his feet. “I trust all is well.”
“William,” Jock replied. “How are they?”
“Neither of them ate much this morning.” He turned and unlocked the door, stepping into the alcove carved into the wall to allow Jock to pass.
Once he was through, William locked the door again. It would stay locked until Jock knocked to be let out. It had been that way for the last six months ever since Eddard had been found teetering on the edge of the well in the courtyard.
Jock was surprised by how quick his parents’ decline had happened. For many years the only sign of their ageing was an increase in white hair and afternoon naps. Yet in the last year they had begun stumbling, forgetting things, and then the worst part of all, becoming dangers to themselves.
At least they were somewhere safe. Not all people had that. They were safe and loved by their people. If only there was a way to reverse their mental and physical decline.
It was an impossible dream but it didn’t stop him including the desire in his prayers from time to time.
He wished God could give him back the parents he knew so well. He knew it was impossible but he never gave up hope the decline might miraculously be reversed one day.
Passing along the corridor he heard conversation in front of him. For a moment he thought they might be talking to each other but he was disappointed.
Stepping out into their main living space he saw the conversation for what it was. They were both reading out loud, neither one seeming to notice the other doing the same.
“Mother,” Jock said, crossing the room to greet Morag. She looked up at him with watery eyes, looking somehow even thinner than last time he saw her. She was losing weight fast and it frightened him. Her lapdog looked up at Jock for a moment before settling back to sleep.
She lifted a bony hand to his face. “Have you lost your mother, wee boy? Dinnae fear. I shall help you find her.” She went to rise but Jock gently held her shoulder.
“Dinnae trouble yourself,” he said. “Enjoy your devotion.” He noticed the book was upside down but said nothing.
Turning to his father, he tried to keep from gasping. The enormous man he used to crane his neck to look up to was no more. Eddard was still tall but he was stooped over as if his own head weighed him down like a destrier around his neck. His hair had thinned and hung lank around his ears. His eyes were hooded and his skin wan like that of a tallow candle.
“Father,” Jock said, pulling over a chair and sitting opposite Eddard. “How are you?”
“Good morning, wee Jock,” Eddard said, his voice faint and husky as if he hadn’t tasted water for a long time. “How art thou?”
“I’m fine,” Jock replied. “How’s the book?”
“This old thing?” Eddard closed the volume. “History of the MacGregors. Needs a new chapter from you perhaps. Keep it going.”
Jock winced, thinking of the empty treasury, how close the clan was to ruin. What a chapter that would be.
“Listen, Father. Has Robin been to see you recently?”
“Aye. He’s often here to see how we’re doing. A good man, that one. One of the best. Takes away all my troubles.”
Jock was beginning to piece things together. “Does he?”
“Doesn’t want me worrying about things up here. How are things in charge? Found a wife yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Dinnae take forever. Me and your mother would like to see you wed before we go.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Eddard coughed loudly.
Jock noticed the flecks of blood flying from his mouth, landing on the floor in front of him. He surreptitiously wiped them away with the tip of his boot.
“Here,” he said, passing a handkerchief to his father. He steeled himself, he was just going to have to come out with it. “Does Robin ask you sign anything on his visits?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“You’re sure?”
Eddard’s brow furrowed. “Wait, there was something a while ago. I cannae remember what it was about though. Did I do something wrong, Jock?”
“No, Father. You’ve not done anything wrong at all.” He stood up. “I’ll be back soon, okay? I’ve just got to take care of a few things.”
Eddard coughed again. Jock made a mental note to tell Adrian to bring some lemon balm and honey up for his throat. He crossed the room once more to his mother, kneeling before her and stroking her snoring lapdog. “Do I ken you?” his mother asked. “Do I ken your mother at all?”
“Aye,” Jock said. “You ken her well.” He stood once more, his heart breaking at the sight of them both. It didn’t make any sense. How could they decline so quickly?
As he left their chambers, it never occurred to him to look back over his shoulder. If he had, he might have noticed the sunlight sparkling on the two tankards on the table over by the window. If he had seen them, he might have been curious enough to have a look inside them.
But his mind was on other things as he left their chambers and he never thought to look back. So the tankards went ignored until someone came to collect them later that day, removing any trace of what was happening.
By then, Jock’s mind was on other things, such as finding a woman to accompany him to Robin’s party, and whether or not to take his sword and cut his double-crossing financier’s head from his shoulders before the swine could burn through any more of the clan’s money.
Chapter Nine
Daisy didn’t know what all the talk of keys meant. The stories Tabby had read to her made a strange kind of sense but then maybe she’d been living with her housemate for too long.
How could a key send anyone through time? It was just a key.
The box sat on her dressing table, looking at her as she brushed her hair in the mirror. Inside was the silver key. She ran through everything that had happened in the last few days, trying to make sense of it all.
She had delivered a box to the laird of MacGregor Castle. She’d forgotten to get him to sign for it and when going back to do that, she’d learned he was more eccentric than she thought.
He’d no concept of a pen and time seemed to move at a differe
nt speed for him. Perhaps by the time she got there this time, he might already have had the party.
What else?
She’d gone to collect a box from the sorting office only to get hit by a car while looking inside at the key it contained. She’d dreamed of him and some bizarre medieval infirmary and then woken up in hospital.
The swelling on her ankle had gone down but the grazes on her thigh were enough to confirm she had been injured. Then she found out the box wasn’t even for her, it was supposed to go to the laird, no doubt a companion for the box he’d already received.
Was that about it?
Sure, if she left out all the stewing she’d done about him, about the man she wanted to forget.
It had proved impossible to get him out of her mind and that was the main reason she’d agreed to go back up one last time. She would deliver this box, say a mental goodbye and then go back home, forget about him for good.
When she was thirteen she had taken up smoking. It had been a stupid thing to do and the habit hadn’t lasted long. The other girls in school were doing it and she was offered one not long after she’d become a laughing stock for proposing marriage to their biology teacher.
She remembered coughing her way through her first cigarette, the girls she thought were her friends slapping her on the back and telling her it got easier, how proud they were of her.
Jock MacGregor was like the cigarettes. When she’d been trying to quit after a few months of smoking, she had found herself thinking about them more than when she was actually holding a cigarette in her hand.
Once she had stopped, her mind was filled with nothing else. Then, over time, the desire for them had faded away. She had thrown herself into running, cycling, music. Anything to distract her from the craving for nicotine.
As an adult she could look back at that time and see it for what it was. She’d gotten lucky. She might have become hooked on smoking but she forgot about it. Now she was hooked on a Scottish laird.
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