by Wylie, Diane
James Grainger stepped inside the church, which was lit by two oil lamps. As soon as he noticed Isobel, his blond brows shot up.
“Young lady, you were asleep by the fire when I left the house. “How came ye to be here?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “I-I came to warn my family you were coming … with a weapon.” Then she pointed a finger at what Grainger carried.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Dinna fash yerself, lassie. This shovel willna be used against anything but dirt.”
“We’d best get started, aye?” Fin opened the door again and stuck his head out. “No one seems to be aboot.”
“Since you’re here, will ye fetch the sacks, Belle? We decided to hide the regalia here.”
A thrill of excitement filled her. Finally, the moment had arrived.
By the faint light of the church candles, Isobel located the sacks behind the last bench on the windowless east wall. She lifted the one she knew that Da had carried; it was made of the Graham tartan colors, a blue background with green plaid.
Bringing the sack over to the bench in the front of the church, she watched as the men raised the pavement stone just before the pulpit. They proceeded to dig a neat rectangular hole.
When the hole was almost ready, Isobel reached into the sack and wrapped her fingers around a soft, round bundle. Drawing it out, she placed it on her lap and carefully peeled the layers of woolen blanket away.
Her breath caught. Here, gleaming yellow gold in the dancing candlelight, with its many jewels and pearls winking in the lamp light, was the crown. With shaking hands, she lifted it.
“Would ye care for one last look at the crown worn by King Charles and a long line of Scottish Kings?”
The men gathered around her to silently stare with unblinking eyes at the ancient artifact, this piece of history. Their shadows cast eerie shapes on the stone walls.
After a few minutes, she lowered it to her lap and began to rewrap the crown. They put several more blankets around the piece, and lowered it carefully into the hole.
Isobel retrieved the other two sacks. Pulling out the sceptre and carefully removing the wrappings, she held it up for the men to see.
“’Tis almost spiritual to behold,” Grainger murmured.
“Aye.” Da agreed.
Knowing she would likely never see this again, Isobel traced the carved dolphins with a finger before touching the polished rod one last time.
Tears blurred her vision as she wrapped the sceptre carefully in blankets before handing it over to Fin.
He placed it reverently into the hole beside the well-protected crown. Then they placed the dirt around both royal pieces by hand until they were completely covered.
Da tamped down the earth and made sure it was level with the floor around it. Then they replaced the paving stone and removed any loose dirt.
“What do ye think? Can you tell the stone was moved?” Fin looked up at them from his hands and knees after brushing the soil off the stone.
“No, the floor looks the same as before,” Isobel declared. Da and Reverend Grainger agreed.
Isobel retrieved the last piece of the regalia from the sacks. Sadly, the sword was now in two pieces. The silver gilt handle, with its oak leaves and acorns crafted into it was still as beautiful as ever.
“Och, ye had to break it in two to transport it?” Reverend Grainger’s voice reflected the unhappiness they all felt.
“Aye, but a good craftsman can repair it easily.” Da took the handle from Isobel. “It was a gift from Pope Julius II to King James IV of Scotland in 1507.”
“’Tis one hundred and forty-five years old. So beautiful for a weapon of death.” Isobel murmured to no one in particular.
“Bring the blade over here, Belle.” Da motioned her to follow him to the west end of the church. Fin and Reverend Grainger knelt and began pulling paving stones away again.
Carrying the scabbard containing the blade, Isobel walked between the benches toward them. After spending all this time guarding them, Isobel was loathe to part with the sacred objects.
“Shall I take out the blade for a last look?” She glanced at each man.
“Aye. ’Tis my first look.” James Grainger’s pale face almost glowed with excitement.
Carefully, Isobel slid the blade from the silver-and-velvet-covered wooden scabbard and placed it on Da’s outstretched palms. They all crowded around to view the images of Saints Peter and Paul that were etched in the Italian-made blade along with the name of Julius II, the giver of the gift to Scotland.
“’Tis so beautiful.” Fin expressed the awe they all felt at this moment. Isobel smiled. Even her hard-minded brother had been touched by the sacred Honours.
Fin and Reverend Grainger turned back to their labor, with Boyd relieving the reverend at times. Soon they had a large hole in the dirt floor between two railings.
Da took the scabbard and slowly slid the blade inside. He passed it almost reluctantly over to his youngest son. Isobel carefully wrapped the handle in a blanket and gave it to the reverend. She watched as they placed both parts of the sword on top of another blanket and pulled the sides over the regalia. It was no longer recognizable as precious historical pieces.
Gathering up dirt a handful at a time, all three men sprinkled it over the blanket-shrouded sword and scabbard. Not to be left out, Isobel knelt on the floor, and little by little, the colors of the blanket were obliterated by the dark Scottish soil. They packed the dirt by hand at first. Then, when it was deemed safe, Fin dumped earth on top by the shovelful and stomped it down until there was no longer a depression in the ground.
As before, they replaced the paving stones and brushed away any excess soil.
“Nae more evidence that the stone was disturbed?” Fin glanced at his father and Grainger, as he wiped sweat from his brow.
“No, ’tis a good job there, Finlay,” Da responded.
“Guid, I’m sore done in.”
Isobel turned to look out of the church’s window. “Dawn will be coming soon. We’d best get some sleep.” Suddenly a big yawn hit her and she rubbed her eyes. “I’m ready to go.”
She walked back to the house accompanied by Reverend Grainger.
“Ye ken what danger ye’ve brought to bear now? I trust you heard how Rabbie was beaten and Catriona’s little cottage was burned by the English soldiers looking for The Honours of Scotland. They laid siege to Dunnottar Castle and burned many houses in their quest to steal the regalia and humiliate Scots.”
They walked through the ghostly mists of pre-dawn, made all the more eerie by the cemetery stones. Isobel shivered and wished she had brought a wrap with her.
“Aye, I ken all of that. Boyd told me.” He smiled and pushed a strand of long blonde hair from his face. “’Twas your Da’s idea, but he didna force me. ’Twas a braw idea. This kirk is so verra small and plain, who would think the grand regalia would be buried here? Not a word of this will pass my lips, lassie. Ye can rest assured of that.”
She envied this man of God with his complete trust that all would be well. Isobel’s worries about the English soldiers, including Derek Sinclair, accompanied her like a shadow.
They walked through the wet grass without speaking for a few seconds. Isobel stopped in her tracks. Grainger kept going until he realized she was no longer there. He turned and went back.
“What is it, lassie?”
“Could I ask you a moral question, Reverend Grainger? ’Tis about something weighing heavily on my mind.”
He took her hand in his and gave it a pat. With the difference in their ages, she thought of him as a paternal figure. As someone outside the Graham family, perhaps he could be more objective.
“I’ve met a man, and I thought I knew him well, but it turned out that he lied to me …”
Knowing that morning wasn’t far away, she told Grainger a short version of Derek’s time with them.
“We turned him away, but I’ve been regretting it ever since. Why can
I not hate the man for being a scheming liar?”
With a gentle hand, the reverend tipped her face up so their eyes would meet. “Because I think ye love that man. Am I right, Isobel?”
“I … uh—”
“God kens what is in your heart and in his as well. This Derek didna lie to be evil nor to hurt anyone. It is in a person’s human nature to survive. He only did what he needed to do. Can ye find fault in that? Truly?”
“No, I know he did what he had to. But I feel so betrayed, Reverend.”
“Aye, I expect ye would. Give it time, lassie. What God intends will come to pass. He will heal your heart. And, if Derek is meant to be in your life, he will be found again.”
All Isobel could do was nod. Her throat had suddenly constricted too much for speech.
Reverend Grainger turned toward the house again. “Come, get some sleep. The dawn is coming on a new day.”
Chapter 13
“Wake up, Belle. Wake up.”
Isobel was jolted out of slumber by a small voice and an even smaller boy, who was yanking her shoulder back and forth.
“What is it, Willie? Is something amiss?”
Pushing to a sitting position from where she lay on the floor, Isobel glanced quickly around. No one else, save William, occupied the main room.
“Och, no. ’Tis time for breakfast. I’m verra hungry.”
Denying the sweet boy anything wasn’t easy, so she decided to distract him for a bit. “Are Catriona and Rabbie awake yet?”
Plopping down cross-legged on the braided rug, William brushed a strand of unruly hair from his face and rubbed his nose. “I dunno. I woke you up first because you said that ye would take care of me. Why did you leave me alone last night? I was scairt.”
With a smile, Isobel reached out, grabbed his ankle, and pulled. William fell onto his back, squealing and laughing as she towed him closer to tickle his belly.
“I had something to do, ye nosy little rascal. But I came back, didn’t I?”
Giggling hysterically, William ineffectively fought off her tickling fingers.
“Aye, but ye took a long time,” he gasped between chuckles.
She stood and hauled him up by the ankles. She let him dangle as she walked the short distance to the kitchen. She plucked a nice, golden-brown bannach out of a basket and handed it to the upside-down, red-faced child.
“There, let this hold you for a bit.”
Lowering him carefully to the floor, she watched as he lay flat where she put him and began to eat the baked treat.
“Sit up, ye wee thing, before you choke on the crumbs.”
He obeyed, but remained in the same spot.
Mrs. Grainger came in, tying her neat white apron as she walked. Spying William, she stopped and bent over to look at him. “Are ye hungry, little man? Would ye like some porridge? Do ye like eggs?”
William nodded twice, still chewing.
Turning to Isobel, the reverend’s wife smiled. “Guid morning, Miss Graham. Could I ask ye and the lad to gather some eggs for breakfast?”
“Of course we will.” Isobel accepted a basket from her and hauled William to his feet.
“Mind ye donna let the chickens out of their coop. I wouldna want to lose one to your fine hawks,” Mrs. Grainger warned as they left the house.
Inside the hen house, William was hesitant to reach under the fat hens, so Isobel plunged her hand into the moist warmth over and over to steal the prized eggs from the birds. They had one more chicken to go.
“I want to try,” William said with solemn seriousness.
“Aye, sir, reach your hand under this last hen. Just do it quickly so ye dinna upset the biddies.”
William averted his face as he stuck out his skinny little arm and pushed under this particularly plump brown hen. Concentrating on his sense of touch, he closed his eyes tightly and the pink end of his tongue stuck out. Apparently, he had stopped breathing for his face turned bright red.
“I got it!”
Excitedly yanking the egg out, he turned toward Isobel.
“Be careful! Dinna squ—”
Cr-rack.
Yellow egg yolk squirted between the boy’s fingers, and he let out a groan followed by a few choice and very Scottish curse words.
“William Ogilvie!”
A sheepish grin transformed his face. “Och, they break easy, aye?”
Isobel grabbed a non-slimy part of him. “Aye, they do. Come on. We’ve got breakfast and a wedding today.”
* * *
Derek stopped and stared at what lay in from of him. Having been mostly raised in Scotland, he was no stranger to its moors. However, the Isle of Skye had heather moors, and those were different from the lowland raised peat bog he faced now. The heather moors of his youth were covered with grass, moss, bracken, and, of course, heather.
This was not just a moor; it was a wet, soggy peat bog. He had heard of these bogs, where the dead and decaying sphagnum moss builds up layer upon layer. To the eye, the peat looks solid, but it reality it is a very thick, boot-sucking sponge.
Derek remembered his grandfather telling tales of carefully making his way across the treacherous land that could easily trap a man alone and hold him until starvation ended his struggles.
Ye must make verra sure to walk on the peat hags, laddie, or the bog will claim ye as hers. He could hear Grandda’s voice in his head.
Mounds of drier sedge grasses dotted the brown, wet peat, stretching as far as he could see. Derek knew the bog had an end where walking would be easier. He had to decide to either alter his course to walk miles around the bog, if possible, or go across it.
His stomach growled loudly, distracting him from his dilemma. The sack of food Catriona Graham had given him held one last rock-hard, stale roll. It was all he had to eat.
Breaking it into crumbly pieces with his hands, Derek was careful not to drop a single morsel on the wet ground. He popped a piece in his mouth, allowed his saliva to soften it a bit before he chewed and swallowed the chunk.
After eating enough of the roll to quiet his stomach, Derek had made his decision. With a firm grasp on his sack that contained half of a roll and his newly acquired red uniform jacket, Derek eyed the closest peat hag, a grassy little island of dry, firm safety.
He stepped out onto it. Both feet just fit. The next two peat hags were not as large, so he had to leap quickly, landing with his left foot on the first, right foot on the second, and hopped again to a third, which was large enough to rest on with both feet.
Planning each footfall carefully, Derek had progressed deep into the bog when he paused on one of the larger peat hags to rest. The sky, colored royal blue, sported friendly white puffy clouds today. Three large birds climbed and dipped off in the distance. Derek shaded his eyes and squinted. Did the birds sport long, string-like things trailing from their legs? Could they be wearing a falconer’s leather jesses?
Adjusting his direction slightly, Derek progressed to yet another peat hag island. His heart raced. Had he found the Graham family’s location? Would he see Isobel again or would they kill him on sight? He had to tell them where to find William’s parents, no matter the consequences to himself.
To his left, undisturbed by his presence, five Greylag geese, one with four little goslings trailing her, paddled around a large bog pond. The clear water reflected the sky and clouds as if it were a huge mirror.
The sound of rushing water caught Derek’s attention, and he glanced around, scanning the ground carefully. There, to the east of the bog pond, the sedge grasses came to an abrupt end at the edges of an undercut water course. Just a month ago, he would have been in danger of missing the sunken water cut hole had it been covered with snow.
Choosing his path with due consideration, Derek bypassed the hole and the bog pond. No falcons were in the air right now, but he had noted their location and set his course accordingly. With each passing day, he faced possible hanging by the army for desertion, but for now, he knew what he had t
o do. His heart would allow nothing else for the people who had saved his life.
Hang the consequences; I’m going to find them.
* * *
News had traveled fast, and the little kirk was packed with good, Scottish citizens of Kinneff. It wasn’t often that a wedding took place here, much less the wedding of a Grand Falconer’s firstborn son.
Catriona and Rabbie glowed with love and happiness as they said their vows for the second time, this time in a more-official setting.
Isobel sniffed, catching a big whiff of the many flowers around the church—they were in containers on the window sills, bundled with string and hanging on the backs of the wooden pews, thrust into hats worn by ladies, and held in the hands of the bride. Dabbing at her watery eyes, Isobel barely managed to control a sneeze. It was bad enough that the ceremony was making her cry, the flowers were too.
“Settle, William, ye canna squirm so in a place of God,” Isobel told the restless boy. He shot her an indignant look, but stopped moving everything but his legs as they swung back and forth from his seat in the church pew.
Isobel struggled to be truly and unselfishly happy for her brother and sister-in-law, but a tiny flame of jealousy burned in her heart, no matter how hard she tried to put it out. Why could she not have the kind of love they had? Why had the only man she’d ever loved turn out to be a lying Englishman?
She sighed and put a smile on her face as the happy couple held hands and walked out of the church to receive the well wishes of their guests.
“Come, William. The ceremony is over … again. Time for the food.”
The little boy clapped his hands. “Will they have cakes? I love sweets.”
“Me too, laddie. Shall we go find out?”
Smoothing the pretty blue dress she had borrowed from the pastor’s wife, Isobel tried hard to follow the boy and walk gracefully so she wouldn’t trip over the hem of the long garment. She was unaccustomed to dressing as a lady; perhaps that was her problem with relationships.
With one eye on her small charge, Isobel congratulated Rabbie and Catriona on their wedding once more with sincere hugs.
