Balford had roasted an unrecognizable creature on a makeshift spit and she’d been too ravenously hungry to ask what she was eating.
The flames provided some heat, but her back was icy cold, despite the frayed blanket around her shoulders. The stone floor and the tales Axton told of the castle’s bloody history aggravated the chill.
“This became the lowland seat of the Earls and Dukes of Argyll,” the fugitive told her, his voice echoing in the empty cavern. “Thanks to the first earl’s marriage to a Stewart.
“Colin Campbell didna like the name Castle Gloom, so he asked King James if he could change it to Castle Campbell.
“The second and third earls added many grand buildings and gardens to the site, but then the fourth earl embraced the Reformation and became one of the leading protestant lords of the day, a friend of John Knox.”
Jewel recalled her father’s tales of John Knox and his crusade to bring Calvinism to Scotland. She sensed the conflicts that resulted in Gloom’s eventual destruction were centered on religious disagreements. Yet, she snuggled further into the blanket, anxious to hear the rest of the story. There was much about her country’s history of which she was woefully ignorant.
“Ye were correct when ye said Queen Mary stayed here,” Axton continued, “but when she married Lord Darnley two years later, the fifth earl rebelled against her.”
Jewel recalled more of her lessons. “But the rebellion failed and he was forced to surrender the castle to the queen,” she declared. Her tutor’s accounts had seemed dull and uninteresting, but now she sat in the very place where Mary, Queen of Scots had dined.
“Right again,” Axton replied. “Ye had a good tutor.”
Balford threw a broken chair leg onto the fire. “She’s a rich brat who talks too much. I’m tired.”
“Would ye prefer to lie awake listening to the ghosts?” Axton asked.
Sulking, Balford pulled his plaid over his head and withdrew further into the dark corner.
“Gloom experienced a long period of peace after that. The seventh earl made improvements and the castle was said to compare favorably with many of the great castles in the country.”
When he paused, she got the feeling he was reluctant to continue. “Then what happened?”
He poked the smoking chair leg closer to the flame with a charred stick. “The eighth earl became the leader of the Covenanters and led the fight against the Royalist Marquis of Montrose. He eventually accepted the protection of Cromwell’s Commonwealth over Scotland and garrisoned Parliamentary troops here. As a result, Royalist rebels swooped down from the Highlands and set fire to the castle.”
Jewel wondered if Great-Uncle Munro and his men had taken part in Gloom’s destruction, but she didn’t voice the possibility aloud. She’d already given away too many clues.
“The earl was executed following the Restoration of Charles II. They say his headless ghost still wanders the hallways.”
Jewel shivered as the embers dimmed. “Why did the family nay rebuild afterwards?”
Axton shook his head. “The son built Argyll’s Lodging in Stirling and preferred to live there.”
“Can a mon nay get some peace?” Balford hissed from the darkness.
“He’s right,” Axton conceded. “On the morrow, we ride to Fàclann.”
Jewel wadded part of the blanket under her head as she lay down. The fire would eventually die and her teeth were already chattering. The ruined edifice creaked and groaned. She heard the unmistakable scratches and squeaks of scavenging rodents, and even the occasional hollow croak of a raven. Axton and Balford were soon snoring loudly. “Men,” she muttered, stupidly wishing she was back in the byre with the pig.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she imagined herself safe in Garnet’s strong arms, willingly pinned against the door of Saint Margaret’s Chapel, enjoying his hungry kisses. “Come soon,” she prayed as tears trickled unbidden down her cheeks.
It would be best to accept rescue was unlikely. She had no idea where Fàclann was, and doubted her champions had any notion where the fugitives were bound.
Too Late
Murtagh called a halt within sight of the Lomond Hills. “I suggest we camp up yonder. We’ll have a view of Fàclann and the road from the west.”
“How can we be sure they havena already passed by?” Gray asked.
“Unlikely,” Garnet replied. “As far as we ken, there’s three people on two mounts.” He ground his teeth, angered by the distinct possibility Jewel had been forced to walk for miles.
“Safer in the hills, anyway,” Murtagh stressed. “The arrival of strangers in a bastion of Covenanters will be looked on with suspicion in these perilous times. Dinna forget, Richard Cameron was the schoolmaster here, and his family still lives in the village.”
They began the gradual climb and made camp in a wooded area that afforded a view of the village and main road.
“Is that a castle on the outskirts?” Gray asked, pointing to a large structure.
“Aye,” Murtagh replied. “Once reputed to be among the finest castles in all of Scotland, the favorite playground of Stewart kings. James V built a tennis court in the gardens. He died there shortly after his defeat at the Battle of Solway Moss, though some say his death was caused by frustration when his wife gave birth to a daughter.”
“Queen Mary,” Gray replied. “Ye see, I did listen to our tutor sometimes.”
Murtagh chuckled. “They say Mary loved tennis when she was a lass, scandalizing everyone by wearing breeches when she played.”
The smile fled from Gray’s face. “Reminds me of Jewel.”
Murtagh put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Dinna worry. We’re nay going home without our precious lass.”
“In a strange twist of fate,” Garnet added, “’twas King James who appointed a distant ancestor of mine as Keeper of this castle—William Barclay from Rhynd, but that was a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Looks like a ruin now,” Gray observed.
“Aye,” Murtagh confirmed. “Fire destroyed most of it when Cromwell’s troops were billeted in the Great Hall during the Civil War. Fell into ruin after that.”
“There are too many burned out castles in Scotland,” Garnet said. “However, I’m more interested in finding out which of those cottages is home to the Cameron family.”
“I could reconnoitre with Aristotle while there’s still daylight,” Gray offered. “I’m the only one not wearing plaid.”
“’Tis a good plan,” Murtagh replied. “But I canna let ye go alone.”
“I’ll accompany ye,” Garnet asserted. “A lad traveling by himself might raise eyebrows.”
Murtagh paced back and forth, then nodded. “Aye. But dinna linger.”
Mounted on Scepter moments later, Garnet eyed Jewel’s brother atop his horse. “Ye’ve inherited yer mother’s courage,” he said after whistling for Aristotle.
Gray narrowed his eyes. “Jewel’s my sister. What about ye? Are ye doing this because ye didna make sure she was safe?”
There was no point hiding his feelings. “I am guilty of thoughtlessly putting Jewel in harm’s way, and I’ll ne’er forgive myself for that, but she has become important to me.”
Gray shrugged as they coaxed their mounts down the gentle slope towards the main road. “She’s a bonnie lass.”
“She’s much more than that,” Garnet retorted. “A mon can find bonnie lasses aplenty.” He hesitated to explain further. The lad might be too young to understand. “There’s alchemy between me and yer sister. I felt it the moment I met her.”
To his surprise, Gray looked him in the eye and nodded. “Aye, she feels it too.”
The revelation strengthened Garnet’s resolve to rescue the woman who’d captured his heart.
They joined the main road and rode slowly into the High Street, deserted except for a handful of elderly men sitting on a low wall outside a small stable. Every single one took the clay pipe out of his mouth to scowl at the newcomers and
their barking dog.
“Good day to ye, gentlemen,” Garnet said with a forced smile as they reined to a halt. “I apologize for Aristotle. He’s just being friendly.”
One man came slowly to his feet with the aid of a cane and put the pipe back in his mouth. “Strangers are nay welcome here.”
Undeterred, Aristotle settled his front paws on the man’s well-worn breeches, wagging his stubby tail furiously.
The villager gripped the pipe between his teeth and reached down to rub the puppy’s ears.
Taking it as a good omen, Garnet soldiered on. “The name’s Barclay, from Blairgowrie.”
“Oh, aye? And who’s the lad?”
“A kinsman. We came a wee bit out of our way to see the castle where our ancestor was Keeper over a hundred years ago.”
“Barclay,” an auld codger confirmed. “From Rhynd.”
He’d been right to gamble that local folks would be conversant with every detail of the castle’s history.
“Naught to see,” another villager replied. “’Tis a ruin.”
“But now I can reassure my mother I’ve been here,” Garnet replied with a grin. “Ye ken how mothers are?”
Aristotle ran about sniffing each villager in turn, growling occasionally at the puffs of smoke. The men watched his antics, their eyes sparkling with amusement, though heavy grey beards hid any trace of a smile.
Garnet took a chance. “I’ve another reason for coming here. I’m a good friend of Donald Cahill.”
Every head swiveled in his direction, suspicion back in the stern faces that stared at him.
“He and I came home from Rotterdam together. We spent time in the Scots Kirk there.” He forced himself to say no more. Rambling on would rouse doubts.
“Did ye meet Richard?” the leader eventually asked.
Garnet frowned. “Nay, he’d already returned to Scotland. Donald knew him. His anger boiled over when news came of Richard’s death. He asked me to pass on his condolences on my way home.”
“Where’s Donald now?”
“I saw him preaching at a conventicle at Rullion Green.”
“Are ye a preacher?”
“Nay as good as Donald.”
Seemingly satisfied with the partially truthful answers, the villager pointed to a substantial, three-story house not far down the street. “Yonder the Cameron dwelling, with the mullioned windows.”
Garnet’s belly churned. Coming face to face with Richard and Michael’s parents was risky, but there was no alternative except to approach the house.
Gray’s frown of uncertainty betrayed a similar worry.
“They’ll nay welcome ye,” the villager said. “Too angry and heartbroken. ’Tis a house in deep mourning.”
“We understand,” Garnet replied. “I passed ’neath the Netherbow with Michael. ’Tis outrageous.”
“Will ye do us the honor of conveying our respects?” Gray interjected, looking suitably solemn.
Apparently impressed that Garnet was acquainted with the surviving Cameron brother, the graybeards wished them Godspeed, still sucking on their pipes.
Garnet and Gray removed their headgear as they rode slowly by the Cameron house, Aristotle hard on their heels.
They picked up speed before detouring back to the camp. “Ye’ve the makings of a fine diplomat,” Garnet quipped as they dismounted.
The lad grinned. “Or mayhap a spy?”
* * *
They’d been on the road for hours and darkness had fallen when Axton called a halt at a crossroads. He stood in the stirrups, listening. Jewel leaned backwards to avoid contact with the assassin’s body. She held her breath, wondering what it was he heard, or didn’t hear. Only the distant churring trill of a nightjar broke the silence.
They’d been following a range of low-lying hills and he’d kept a wary eye on the forested slopes.
“Is this the turn-off for Fàclann?” Balford asked.
“Aye, but we willna take it,” Axton replied, settling into the saddle. “Somebody’s camping in yonder hills. Can ye nay smell the fires?”
Catching a whiff of woodsmoke, Jewel swallowed the lump in her throat when she remembered happy evenings listening to tales around the campfire with Murtagh and his comrades. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Then she’d been a naive young lass with the world at her feet; now she was a dirty, disheveled captive who might not survive the night.
“Gypsies,” Balford sneered. “Who else can it be?”
“I dinna ken,” Axton replied. “But better safe than sorry. Someone perhaps expects us to go to Fàclann. We’ll lodge tonight with Covenanters in Strathmiglo.”
Jewel’s hopes of getting off the cursed horse dimmed. “How far is that?” she demanded to know.
“Closer than Fàclann,” Axton assured her. “And I might even allow ye to sleep in a bed.”
The prospect was welcome, but it chafed that her existence had narrowed to elation at the promise of a proper bed for the night. If he’d mentioned a bath, she might have burst into tears.
“We should ride further,” Balford said nervously.
“Our horses are spent,” Axton replied. “We won’t get far on foot.”
A short time later, they rode slowly into the darkened street of a small village she assumed was Strathmiglo. Axton went directly to the back door of a cottage with which he was clearly familiar, dismounted and knocked softly.
He was recognized by the elderly man who eventually opened the door. Light from his lantern flooded the doorway for a brief moment, then they disappeared inside.
Emerging a few minutes later with a youth, he reached up and lifted her down from the horse. “No bed. But we’ll be warm in the kitchen.”
Balford dismounted and the lad led the horses away.
Her stiff legs refused to function properly and she was annoyingly glad of Axton’s strong arm as he escorted her into a one-room hovel. The odor of unwashed bodies told her right away there’d be no chance of a bath.
However, her empty belly rejoiced loudly as a tempting aroma stole up her nostrils. She licked her lips when a woman beckoned them to the ancient trestle table near the kitchen fire and she set eyes on three bowls of broth. Good manners were no longer important, so she slumped into a rickety chair, seized the wooden spoon and slurped the tepid liquid. “Delicious,” she muttered, smiling at the woman whose heavily wrinkled features made it impossible to tell if she was smiling back or not.
Mumbling hypocrites under her breath, she quickly quashed any feelings of guilt when Axton and Balford bowed their heads in prayer before taking up their spoons.
The elderly man and his wife shuffled away to disappear behind a heavy swath of grease-blackened fabric that evidently separated the sleeping quarters from the rest of the dwelling.
The youth who’d taken care of the horses returned.
Axton rose from the table and ushered the newcomer outside. When he came back alone, he told Balford the lad was the grandson of the house.
Jewel was too tired to care about the identities of these people who were willing to abet her abduction.
Hunger partially satisfied, she folded her arms across her chest and glowered at Balford until her eyelids drooped.
She drifted awake some time during the night to discover she’d fallen asleep with her arms sprawled across the table. Balford lay by the hearth, but she wasn’t sure where Axton was and lifting her head would require too much effort.
It was still dark when she was shaken awake. “We’re leaving,” Balford hissed.
The peasant, his wife and grandson stood close together by the rekindled fire, all in nightshirts and caps.
Axton took her arm and pulled her up. “Ye’ve become a liability,” he said softly.
“I dinna understand,” she rasped, still half asleep. “What have I done?”
“Hamish reports there were strangers in Fàclann yesterday—a youth and a Highlander named Barclay. I suspect they’re from the mob in the Edinburgh meado
w and they’re looking for ye. Dragoons we can outwit. Highlanders are another matter.”
“We must kill her and be done with it,” Balford shouted.
“Nay in my house,” the cottager exclaimed.
“We’ll take her to the castle,” Axton replied.
Jewel’s knees trembled. Hope and despair warred within her heart. Garnet had come to her rescue, but it was too late.
Bottle Dungeon
Garnet was perplexed. The lookouts had seen no one ride into Fàclann during the night. “Just a boy on foot?” he asked again.
“Whistling,” Hamish replied.
“Carrying a lantern,” Jock confirmed.
Garnet heard the thunder of hoofbeats before he caught sight of the dust cloud that heralded the imminent arrival of Andrews and his dragoons. “They’ve evaded us,” he yelled to Murtagh as he mounted Scepter and set off to intercept the soldiers before they reached the village.
Andrews halted his troop when he saw Garnet. Murtagh and Gray joined him at the base of the hill.
“We watched all night,” Garnet explained, blinking the dust from his eyes. “They didna come to Fàclann.”
“And we’ve seen no sign of them on the road from Stirling,” Andrews replied.
“We were wrong in our assumption they are headed for Aberdeen,” Gray declared.
Murtagh shook his head. “Nay. The Netherlands is the only place they’d be safe, and I doot they’d risk the Edinburgh docks.”
“Aye,” Andrews confirmed. “Leith was the first place we looked.”
“So, where are they?”
The captain patted his horse’s neck. “I’ve asked for a patrol to be sent to Aberdeen, but it may not arrive in time. In the meanwhile, we’ll search the Cameron house, just to be sure.”
Garnet pointed. “’Tis the substantial one with…”
Andrews smiled. “I ken. We ransacked it often enough when we were hunting Richard Cameron.”
Highland Jewel Page 12
