“Aye,” he replied, getting to his feet. “I wonder what happened to Solomon and his wife. Papa refers to her as Medusa, but that wasna her real name.”
“Probably dead by now,” she said, adjusting the uncomfortable bindings around her breasts before stepping outside.
“Here come the lads now,” Murtagh announced with a rather obvious wink as they approached the campfire.
The visitors—a man and woman who looked more like scruffy gypsy tinkers than prosperous sutlers—barely gave them a glance, intent as they were on devouring Murtagh’s oatmeal.
A wagon that resembled an armored box on wheels stood nearby, a huge drayhorse in the traces.
“Good morrow,” Gray offered.
“Good morrow,” Jewel echoed in the deepest voice she could manage.
A curious bairn popped her head out from behind the woman. At least, Jewel thought it was a lass of about seven years. The mucky face and a mass of tangled hair made it difficult to tell precisely. The man and woman looked too old to have such a young child, but a harsh life could age folk prematurely.
Hoping a smile might coax the bairn completely out of her hiding place, Jewel accepted a bowl of porridge as she sat. She was normally a good conversationalist, but caution and Murtagh’s frown held her tongue.
“Twins, are ye?” the woman asked.
“Aye,” Gray replied, scooping a spoonful of oatmeal.
“Like our two.”
Jewel wasn’t sure what she meant until another bairn popped out from behind the man. Again, it was impossible to tell the child’s sex, but she was tempted to laugh at the antics of the pair. She wondered how many more bairns were concealed behind the weathered cloaks of the parents.
Murtagh cut her amusement short. “Ian Marchant was telling us about the history of yon bridge.”
Having little idea of their location, Jewel looked to where he pointed. A stone bridge floated above the grey mist rising off the river. The sight conjured a memory of her Italian tutor’s preoccupation with Dante’s Divine Comedy. A shiver ran up her spine. She half expected Charon to appear, ferrying the dead across the Acheron to the underworld.
“Aye,” the sutler said. “Bothwell. Nigh on two years ago.”
The porridge lost its appeal. Her father had told his children of the bloody battle fought at Bothwell between Covenanters and dragoons. She was glad she hadn’t known their location last night. She wouldn’t have slept a wink. Murtagh had kept it to himself.
“Aye. Six thousand rebels, camped over yonder,” Marchant said with a grand gesture. “Same number of dragoons on the north bank of the Clyde, commanded by the king’s own bastard. Monmouth eventually took the bridge and routed the enemy.”
He tapped the side of his nose. “Difference was, the Covenanters couldna agree among themselves. Too much quarreling over this and that, too many religious disagreements.”
So far, Jewel hadn’t heard anything she didn’t already know. The Duke of Monmouth’s forces were renowned as disciplined veterans and, according to accounts of the battle, the Covenanters were poorly armed.
“Aye, ye ken too many cooks spoil the broth,” Marchant went on. “Well, too many zealots were in command of the Covenanters. The fanatical Axton and Balford were there, and ’twas well known they’d assassinated Archbishop Sharp. They proclaimed their identities to Sharp’s daughter who watched as they butchered her father.
“A more moderate preacher, a Highlander by the name of Donald Cahill called for unity, but few listened. He was fortunate to flee after being wounded. I heard tell he found refuge in the Scots Kirk at Rotterdam. Most of the survivors were rounded up and shipped off to a prison near Greyfriars kirkyard.”
“In Edinburgh,” one of the Marchant twins piped up, evidently familiar with the tale.
“Those still alive after months in prison were transported,” the sutler went on. “The few who escaped after Bothwell joined other groups and rallied under Richard Cameron’s leadership.”
Mrs. Marchant snorted. “A fanatic if ever one lived.”
Jewel was beginning to get the impression the Marchants weren’t sympathetic to the Covenanter cause, but it wouldn’t be wise to betray her own family’s position. Her Presbyterian father and Episcopalian mother had learned to reconcile their different ways of worshipping God, but it would be foolhardy to reveal Colonel Morgan Pendray’s role in Cameron’s demise.
“Ye’re too quiet,” Marchant suddenly observed, “nay like my two lads.”
The Marchant twins immediately popped back into their hiding places, giving the lie to their father’s assertion they were chatterboxes. However, at least Jewel now knew they were boys, but how four people managed to travel rough roads in the windowless crate was beyond her ken.
The Marchants packed their gear and bundled it and the bairns into the wagon. “Much obliged for the oatmeal,” the sutler told Murtagh. “Will ye travel with us?”
“Aye. Be along shortly,” the blacksmith replied.
The drayhorse raised his drooping head and looked mournfully at Marchant as he slapped the reins. Apparently resigned to his fate, the horse lifted a massive hoof and the wagon lurched off drunkenly.
“Surely we’re nay going to stay behind them?” Jewel asked. “’Twill take forever to get to Edinburgh.”
Murtagh carried on packing his stuff. “The Marchants willna be the only wagon on the road before too long. There’s safety in numbers.”
“Be patient,” Gray scolded when she pouted. “He’s right. After all, the folk we meet on this journey might be as interesting as the scenery.”
“I suppose so,” she acknowledged. “’Tis important to ken the history.”
“Aye. Hopefully, we learn from the mistakes of the past, and nay repeat them.”
“Yet the Convenanters want to throw out the monarchy, which we learned once before didna work.”
Gray helped her mount Scepter. “Remember what Papa always says. When religion is at the heart of a dispute…”
As their cavalcade got underway, Jewel pondered the idea. She’d taken her father’s “pearls of wisdom” for granted. Yet, he was a wise man she respected. His observations and beliefs were based on experience, not whimsical notions. Perhaps it was high time she began to think like an adult. It confirmed her conviction she’d been right to insist on this journey. Envisaged at first as an exciting adventure, it might turn out to be more than that if she opened her mind to new ideas.
They caught up to the sutlers after a short while, but Murtagh kept a distance between them. “We dinna want to eat dust,” he said dryly.
As the day wore on, other wagons gradually joined the convoy. Jewel got used to the slow, steady pace and enjoyed the ever-changing moorland scenery. She inhaled the fresh air, glad she wasn’t cooped up inside one of the rolling boxes like the Marchant twins.
Ghosts Of The Past
It was still light when the travelers called a halt. The convoy had grown to more than ten wagons and it appeared Murtagh was content to join the throng.
Jewel had come to accept security lay in numbers. A feeling of safety helped her enjoy the journey. Gray was right—meeting different folk along the way and hearing their tales was as much a part of the adventure as the places they planned to visit.
“There’ll be a gathering later,” Murtagh informed them as they dismounted.
She hesitated. “Nay a conventicle, I hope.”
The blacksmith shook his head. “These folks are traders, nay zealots. They gather around the fire to tell the old stories.”
Jewel stroked Scepter’s nose. As Jock the Saddler took the reins, the air suddenly filled with the shrieks of excited bairns. The horse startled. “Dinna worry,” the Highlander assured her, calming the animal. “They’ve been cooped up all day in the wagons.”
The grassy field came alive with at least twenty lads and lassies, running hither and yon, clearly enjoying their long-awaited freedom. Girls picked daisies; boys kicked around an odd-looking
ball with bits of straw sticking out of it.
“Remember?” Gray asked. “When we were bairns?”
Smiling as fond memories swept over her, Jewel stooped to pluck a daisy. “I used to make chains.”
“I recall ye wore them like a crown and pretended to be Queen Jewel.”
She lifted her chin. “And ye were my servant,” she said haughtily.
He scoffed. “Aye, and ye used to pine after Munro’s friends and play He loves me, He loves me not with the petals.”
She laughed. “And now I canna even tell ye their names.”
Her brother effected a courtly bow. “I must leave ye forthwith, Yer Majesty. I go to offer my help to Murtagh.”
She shooed him away with an imperious gesture and sat on a fallen log. A quick glance around showed no one watching, so she adjusted the bindings around her breasts.
She noticed older children, youths and adolescent girls helping their parents set up camp. There’d be no running through meadows for them. They’d reached an age when they were expected to behave as adults and lend a hand.
The conversation with Gray had underscored she was no long a bairn and would be looked upon as an oddity if she gave in to the urge to join in the antics of the wee ones.
Without thinking, she began plucking petals from the daisy. “He loves me, he loves me not,” she whispered, stupidly elated when the last petal confirmed she was loved. Tossing the broken stem to the ground, she got to her feet. “Trouble is, who is he? And where is he?”
“We’re in Bathket,” a voice replied.
Mrs. Marchant had come to sit beside her. “Nay, I meant…” She bit her tongue. The woman believed she was a boy. “Bathket?”
Apparently having regained her breath, Mrs. Marchant stood. “Aye, ye’ll hear the tale later. Now, where are those two lads of mine?”
Feeling unsettled, Jewel wandered off into a nearby copse to see to her needs. She had to be careful lest someone discover her disguise.
She emerged a short time later, astonished to see order where chaos had reigned. The wagons were pulled into a circle. Bairns sat around a hearty fire, their faces glowing as flames licked at the gathering darkness.
She wandered over to the Kilmer Highlanders and took her place on a camp stool next to Gray.
“Organized confusion,” he remarked as they watched mothers and older daughters serve their families.
She inhaled the aroma of the meat Murtagh was roasting on a spit. “Ye’re lucky,” she told her brother. “Queen Jewel wouldna have the first idea how to cook a meal for ye.”
“Dinna feel badly,” he replied. “If ’twas my responsibility to snare the rabbits, we wouldna have anything to eat and if they handed me the reins of one of those carts, I’d have it overturned in short order.”
They chuckled together, but it was a sharp reminder of the privileged life they’d led.
An hour later, the families sat in groups, bundled in blankets, enjoying the last of the fire’s glowing embers. Jewel’s belly was full and she could scarcely keep her eyes open. Several rosy-cheeked bairns nodded off even before Marchant began his tale of Bathket.
“Over five hundred years ago a castle stood hereabouts, built by Uchtred Dalrymple.”
People peered into the shadows as if to conjure an image of a castle that no longer existed.
“He was Sheriff of Linlithgow who came at the behest of King Malcolm to establish a parish church ruled by Holyrood Abbey.”
Murmured agreement wafted its way aloft on the wisps of smoke.
“They’ve heard this tale before,” Jewel whispered.
Another tinker took up the story. “Two hundred years later, the lands came to Walter Stewart as part of his wife’s dowry. Margery was the daughter of King Robert the Bruce.”
The Bruce rippled through the crowd in hushed reverence.
“Only ten years after the marriage, Stewart died in the castle, but ye’ll find only a ruin now. Folk claim their ploughs have turned up kitchen utensils and even coffins.”
There was a collective intake of breath. Sleeping bairns startled awake as a chilly breeze rekindled the flames.
“’Tis the Silver Spirit of Cairnpapple,” a shrill female voice warned. “Restless since they opened the mine.”
Jewel looked to Murtagh.
“Silver was discovered at the turn of this century,” he explained, “but the mine never yielded much ore and was soon closed.”
Jewel was enjoying learning the old tales. Storytelling was a vital part of passing on history. If ever she had bairns of her own, she’d tell them the stories of her own family. However, she hoped to soon seek her bed in the cozy tent.
“Aye, but there’s more than one spirit haunts this town,” Marchant shouted, startling her awake. “The ghosts of Covenanters tortured and killed at Rullion Green return to the place they know they should never have left that fateful night.”
Bile rose in Jewel’s throat. Was there no escape from the brutal tales of the Covenanters? She was tempted to cover her ears, knowing Murtagh would explain.
In the event, he didn’t have to.
“The Covenanter army was in retreat after failing to win the support of the people for its march on Edinburgh. Pursued by dragoons, they arrived in Bathket, only to be roused at midnight by cries of To horse. To horse.”
Eyes darting here and there, he paused in his account, listening to the echo of his desperate shout.
Bairns whimpered, as if they heard the pounding hoof and heartbeats.
He continued in a barely audible whisper. “They fled into the cold November night. Many froze to death in the snow before they reached the Pentland Hills. At Rullion Green the dragoons overtook them. Those who survived the battle were hanged, drawn and quartered, their pleas for mercy ignored by Archbishop Sharp.”
The whimpers turned to wailing. The dreadful tale dispersed the gathering quickly as mothers shooed bairns to the wagons.
The fire died.
Teeth chattering, Jewel was thankful for the blanket Murtagh dropped on her shoulders. “How long ago was this?” she asked.
“Fourteen, fifteen years, mayhap,” he replied.
“I doot those bairns will get any sleep this night,” she told Gray, suspecting that Rullion Green would haunt her dreams too.
* * *
The tinkling laughter of little lasses woke Garnet the next morning. Stiff from sleeping on the planked floor, he stretched his arms above his head and made his way to the window. “Sun’s up,” he remarked, squinting at the brightness of the day.
Hearing no reply, he discovered Donald had apparently risen earlier and remade the bed. He wondered if his friend had slept at all.
The laughter drew his attention back to the yard. Meaghan and her sisters were playing with a small white dog with orange patches and a stubby tail. He chuckled. “Might have known they’d have a white puppy.”
Everything about the family next door bespoke purity and light. He’d wager the interior walls of their home were whitewashed. How was it possible for two such different families to live under the same roof?
Perhaps the Guthries weren’t presbyterians, although he knew many of that religion who enjoyed life and weren’t as dour or unpleasant as the Camerons. He’d been advised to convert to Calvinism before leaving for Amsterdam, much to the horror of his devout Catholic mother who prayed daily for his immortal soul. He chuckled again at the notion of trying to convert her. The Camerons of the world would judge him a blasphemer if he revealed his belief folk should be allowed freedom of religion.
Donald poked his head in the doorway. “Ye’ll miss breakfast if ye dinna hurry. Mrs. Cameron willna wait for ye much longer.”
Surprised she’d waited at all, Garnet raked his fingers through his hair and followed his friend downstairs.
On arriving in the kitchen, he discovered the whole Cameron clan seated at the large, rectangular table. Heads bowed, the bairns stared into empty bowls.
His gut clenched.
They were waiting for him. “My apologies,” he said in response to Michael’s glare. “I didna realize…”
“Sit,” Mrs. Cameron commanded, hefting a blackened, two-handled pot from the stove. The table creaked under its weight.
Garnet took the empty chair and quickly bowed his head like the others.
Michael intoned a long, rambling prayer of thanks and everyone else at the table chimed into the loud Amen.
He hurried to pass his bowl to Mrs. Cameron when she thrust out one insistent hand, the other holding a ladle of steaming oatmeal.
“Thank ye,” he murmured as she handed the half-filled bowl back to him.
No one ate until Michael scooped a spoonful.
Silence reigned. Garnet became aware he was the only one making noise as he slurped the scalding hot porridge. He sat amid four bairns who made no sound while they ate—an impossibility in the Barclay household. Breakfast with his younger sisters had been anything but quiet. The memory filled him with nostalgia.
“I have two sisters,” he blurted out before his brain caught up with his mouth.
The four Cameron lasses gaped at him, then looked furtively at their father. For a moment, he feared he might be punished for speaking. Then a wee voice piped up, “What do ye call them?”
He could have kissed the smallest of the Cameron brood, the only redhead in the family, and hoped she wouldn’t later suffer the consequences of her curiosity. “Sissy and Margaret,” he replied. “But they’re grown now and have bairns of their own.”
“So, ye’re an uncle.”
“Aye. I’ve four nephews.”
Mrs. Cameron squirmed, her lips drawn in a tight line as if she was sitting on a hot coal.
Donald directed a warning frown at Garnet.
The remaining children watched wide-eyed, clearly not knowing what to make of this unexpected exchange.
“I’m Maggie too,” the little lass exclaimed with a mouthful of porridge. “But I’ve got no brothers, and neither does Meaghan next door.”
Mrs. Cameron rose abruptly from her chair and lifted the pot back onto the stove. “How many times do I have to tell ye, Margaret Elizabeth Cameron? Dinna talk with yer mouth full.”
Highland Jewel Page 3
