The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  They were gone. All of them!

  She had the one jack from the deck of cards he’d given her. No more.

  He had given her permission to ride alone, but if she took a horse and did not return it before nightfall, she was sure an alarm would be raised. The Black Knave was said to be a horse thief as well as a Jacobite. She could steal a horse.

  What would happen to Dougal if she were caught? The thought sent shivers of terror through her.

  But she had to do something.

  Could she trust Trilby?

  Her mind kept jumping from subject to subject. Did she dare take a chance?

  The Black Knave had repeatedly risked his life for her friends, for Scotland’s patriots. How could she do less for him?

  She replaced the marquis’s clothes and left his stark room.

  ’Twas midday.

  Bethia went to her room, Black Jack anxiously tagging after her. He whined as if he knew what she was thinking and didn’t care for it at all.

  She regarded her face carefully in the mirror. It was pale, but not pale enough. Mayhap it would be easier to put color into it. An unhealthy color. A very unhealthy color.

  But what kind of illness would keep people away, unwilling to go into her room? The pox? That would terrify everyone but it would also bring attention to Braemoor. That would not do.

  Fainting spells? Everyone would suspect a child. It had been three months since their wedding.

  That was it. She could go into seclusion. She remembered hearing tales of women who swooned when they were with child, who became deathly ill. Her mother, who had seven bairns, four of which survived childbirth, had always voiced contempt for such behavior. It was a woman’s lot to bear children with dignity.

  Would Trilby cooperate? Would she risk the marquis’s wrath?

  She would tell Trilby she was faint and ill with an uncertain stomach, that she was not well enough to see anyone. They would draw their own conclusions. Then she would slip out tonight, leaving a note for Trilby, telling her she had to make sure her brother was safe, that she had heard he was not. Would she please tell everyone the marchioness was still fragile? But then would Trilby be blamed?

  She immediately dismissed that plan because of the last factor. She could not be responsible for Trilby being caught in such a lie.

  Mayhap the direct route was best. The marquis had given her freedom to ride. He had left her bed and gone to his mistress. She would just take a horse and ride away, leaving a note to him or to anyone who asked that she was going to visit her brother. She had promised not to leave the marriage. She had not promised she would not try to visit her brother.

  Many things could happen along the way. She could take the wrong road and become lost. For days.

  She was certain there would be a price to pay, but if she would be able to warn the Black Knave it did not matter. Especially if she could earn his gratitude—and his help.

  And if her husband was dismayed, she could counter accusation with accusation. Her husband had left her bed without so much as a word. Probably for the bed of his mistress. His anger could be no greater than her own.

  Bethia planned her escape carefully. She had to leave during daylight hours or there would be questions. She knew that Jamie’s father stayed in the stable at night, and he would well question a midnight ride.

  She dressed in her riding costume, then carefully wrapped Jamie’s old clothes along with a bonnet in a piece of cloth. She planned to say, if anyone asked, that she was taking the bolt for a shirt to be made for her husband. As an afterthought, she took out the necklace her husband had given her. She might need a bribe. It had held some meaning for a fraction of time, but now it held none.

  She carefully sewed it inside one of the trouser legs, then sewed another piece of cloth over it. It would be uncomfortable and complicate her walking, but it might well be necessary. It gave her some bit of satisfaction that she might be using his gift to thwart his patron.

  She then wrote a note saying that she had gone to see her brother. Hopefully, Neil would not care enough to send someone after her, especially without orders from the marquis.

  Bethia planned to get lost along the way. She would take the road to Rosemeare where her brother was imprisoned, then cut down toward Buckie on the coast. It would be a most unusual thing for a woman to take such a trip without an escort, but after all, she was a Jacobite. If her husband could disappear for days, she did not know why she could not.

  More important, she would be taking action, becoming a part of events that affected her, not just a pawn in someone else’s game. In numerous games. Cumberland’s. Her husband’s.

  Neither cared about her or Dougal.

  She’d never felt so alone. And yet she also felt a sense of purpose.

  Bethia hurried down the stairs. Neil and some of his men were out looking for the young Ogilvy and now probably Drummond, and any other Jacobite they could locate. They would be back tonight, and all they would care about would be the casks of wine and hot food.

  Jamie was in the stable, and he saddled her horse. He asked to go with her, but she said she now knew the way, and would be safe by herself. He looked at her doubtfully, but then his fa came in, and told him to mind “the lady.”

  ’Twas obvious that no one but Jamie really cared about her safety.

  She mounted with his help, then walked the mare down the lane and out of sight of the tower house. Bethia then urged the mare into a canter until they reached a crossroads. She took the road that led to the mountains and the coast, the one away from Lord Creighton and her brother.

  She was free.

  The rumor was indeed a trap for the Black Knave rather than Drummond. If Drummond, however, was also apprehended, so much the better.

  Rory discovered that fact very quickly.

  His uniform gained him entrance to a tavern frequented by English officers. They were thankfully well into their cups and accepted him without question, especially since he seemed as rollicking drunk as they.

  They were not discreet. Several of them had just come off patrol. Every approach to the fisherman’s house was well watched. Any stranger, no matter how old, or which sex, was stopped. Drummond would probably hear of the fisherman shortly, and he would make his way to him.

  The Black Knave would undoubtedly try to save him from his own foolishness.

  The English were not exactly sure where Drummond was, except they believed he was hiding in the Grampians. He had been sighted near a village, and later a village lad had been heard asking whether anyone knew a fisherman willing to risk sailing him south to a port where he might find passage out of the country. He would be well-paid.

  The word was out that a Geordie Grant would be interested. Geordie, it was said, would do anything for a coin or cask of ale. ’Twas expected that Drummond would approach him either tonight or the next. The soldiers had apparently been part of the patrol watching the fisherman’s house for the past two days, and were weary of inaction. They also wearied of the incessant cold rain, and complained bitterly that the Scottish weather was as cold and treacherous as many of the country’s inhabitants.

  Still, the thought of trapping the Black Knave was an enticing one. The reward was large.

  Rory affected his best English accent. Since he’d fostered with an English family, he could talk about nearly anyone with some knowledge. He soon had his companions roaring with laughter with imitations of several highly placed officials in King George’s government. Then, thoroughly accepted, he sat back with a brandy, faked a drunkenness and listened as a plan fermented in his mind.

  He’d next have to find Alister or make sure warnings had been delivered.

  He suspected Alister might already have found Drummond. His friend had built several strong networks of spies, using information from those they had already helped. Spurred by his own dismal childhood, Alister had quite actively and enthusiastically turned into a protector of the weak and hunted. He had, in fact, a genius for n
ames and organization.

  Rory wished the other officers luck in finding the blackhearted villain who had made fools of them. He discreetly left the latter part of the sentence unspoken, and lurched uncertainly toward the door and his horse.

  Fifteen minutes later he approached the Flying Lady. It was a tavern frequented by local fisherman, many of whom hated the English, and was therefore avoided by soldiers of the crown. Rory would be thoroughly obnoxious, obnoxious enough to bring attention to himself.

  The Flying Lady was part of an inn and was far quieter than one frequented by the English. Scots huddled around the tables in bleak and sullen silence, their expressions bitter and hostile as he entered the public room. Their fishing had been curtailed in large measure by the English who worried about Jacobites escaping. Boats were repeatedly searched and often confiscated by the English who claimed their owners were Jacobite sympathizers.

  A man approached him, a burly individual with a deep frown. “I am thinkin’ ye are in the wrong place,” he said.

  “I think not,” Rory said and took a chair. “I will have your best brandy.”

  Moments later he was drinking what must be the worst brandy in all of Scotland.

  All eyes were on him. He ignored them, raised his feet to the table and leaned comfortably back in the chair and regarded the others with equanimity. An hour went by, then another.

  His tavern mates muttered. He grinned at them.

  One by one they left, leaving the owner glowering at him. “Closing time,” he said.

  “I had hoped for a friendly game of cards.”

  The tavern keeper looked at him as if he had grown a set of fangs and was breathing fire. He knew he could not force an English officer to leave.

  “Sit down and play with me,” Rory said.

  The man glowered.

  Rory paid no attention to the scowl. Instead he took out a deck of cards and facilely shuffled them. Then he split the deck and turned one side up to a black jack.

  The tavern keeper’s scowl deepened. He turned and started to walk away.

  “Brodie said you could be trusted.” Brodie was the name Alister used on his travels.

  The man stopped. “’Ow is Mr. Brodie?”

  “Sick in soul.”

  The tavern keeper’s gaze bored into him, accepting the agreed upon words with a lingering doubt. He was still being cautious, and Rory approved of that.

  “What do ye want?”

  “Has Brodie been here?”

  “He has.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.” The tavern keeper continued to regard him suspiciously. “He left a warning.”

  “For Drummond?”

  “Aye,” the man said cautiously.

  “You know where he is, then?”

  “Mayhap.” He looked at the card again. “Anyone could have tha’ card.”

  Rory took his feet from the table. “True,” he said amiably, “but we needed something people could trust. It might well have outworn its purpose. I knew the words, though, too.”

  The tavern keeper’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye ’im? The Knave?”

  “Nay. Just a messenger.”

  The man did not look as if he believed Rory, but then he appeared a naturally suspicious man. Rory approved of that, too.

  “I must get in touch with Drummond.”

  Cool blue eyes appraised him. “Ye look and talk like an English officer.”

  “It is helpful at times.”

  “Aye,” the man said grudgingly. “But I can take a message.” He bristled. “Or am I not trusted?”

  “I would not be here if you were not.” Rory dropped the English accent. “But Drummond is headstrong, and he may not believe you.”

  The innkeeper hesitated, then slowly relented. “I will take ye to him. I was planning to take Brodie’s message to him later tonight. First I will have to get my brother to take over the inn.”

  “Do you have some other clothes? This uniform is rather conspicuous. I do not fancy being shot as an Englishman.”

  The innkeeper finally smiled. “Our Father may not let ye enter His gates.”

  “I should hope not,” Rory agreed.

  “He sees into their black hearts.”

  “Aye,” Rory said.

  He was suddenly accepted. He did not know why or how, but the man gestured him up a narrow set of steps and opened a door to usher him inside.

  In another few moments, Rory was dressed in plain ragged breeches made of drugget. It was coarse and undyed and exactly what he needed. He selected a used and somewhat smelly shirt of similarly rough material, then some shoes with a thin sole nearly worn through. The innkeeper added a worn jacket.

  The man watched with curiosity as Rory stripped the well-manicured mustache from above his lips. He was, Rory knew, reconsidering Rory’s denial that he was the Black Knave. But Rory had no intention to debate the point. Let him wonder.

  He stuffed some cotton in his cheeks, then darkened his teeth with a substance Elizabeth had given him. The cotton also changed his voice.

  The innkeeper stared with amazement. “I nev’r would ’ave believed it.” He struck out his hand. “I am Kerry.”

  Rory gave him a crooked, toothy grin. “I know.”

  Sixteen

  Every bone in Bethia’s body ached. Every muscle, every part of her body. The cold crept inside the thin clothing she wore, and the wind lashed at the worn bonnet. She prayed the too-large bonnet would keep her hair inside. She’d disciplined it into a tight braid and pinned it tightly to the back of her head.

  She’d also bound her breasts with a piece torn from a sheet, and she thought she looked like a luckless lad. The problem was, of course, the horse. It was much too fine for one of a lad’s obvious station. Yet she needed it to get to Buckie in time to warn those intended for the English net.

  So she rode through woods and fields and the Grampians. At night she risked the roads, listening carefully for the sound of hoofbeats and drawing into the shadows at any sound.

  Had she been a complete fool?

  She was beginning to think so.

  Trilby would be missing her by now. Would she sound the alarm, or would she simply believe she was with the marquis? They might be searching for her at this very moment. Perhaps the marquis had arrived home. She had tasted his cynicism, his irritation, but never yet his anger. What would he do?

  She thought of Black Jack in his basket at Braemoor. Trilby would see to him, Bethia knew that. The maid was as captivated with the pup as she was.

  And what could she really do? Relay word? She had thought about trying to become the Black Knave, but whoever would believe such a scrawny lad could be the valiant and fearless hero? Master of disguises or not, he could never fit into so small a form as hers.

  Feeling more and more useless, she nonetheless kept riding through the night until she reached the Innes lands. The Innes clan had always been Jacobites. Their land lay not far from Buckie. She had visited there several times with her brothers. One brother, in fact, had courted Anne Innes.

  Had any of them survived the bloodbath? Their branch of the clan was small, with no title, only a laird. Had they managed to hold on to any of their property? She remembered one of the grooms. He had openly flirted with her. That had only been eighteen months ago. It seemed a lifetime.

  She thought of the house party she’d attended, the dancing and merriment. Most of the guests were dead now. Her betrothed, Angus, had been there, as had her two brothers. All had talked of nothing else but the imminent arrival of Prince Charles and how they would chase the British from Scotland once and for all. They had boasted and drunk and danced and had been so very young. She bit her lip to keep the tears from coming, to hold back the feeling of loss and emptiness.

  All were gone now. All of them.

  And gone for a cause that never really had a chance. She knew that now. She knew about the clans that had deserted the prince, about the mistakes, all the warnings he’d dis
regarded. And yet she, like so many Scots, wished him speedy and safe passage to France.

  There would never be another uprising, though. Cumberland had done his job well.

  Nearly numb with cold and echoes of a past that could never be reborn, she tied her horse to a bush, then approached the tower house where she’d once danced so gaily. The first gray glimmers of dawn were appearing over the hills. She would approach the stable first and try to learn whether Anne Innes was still in residence. Perhaps Anne could find her a less conspicuous horse.

  The door to the barn was closed. She opened it and slipped inside. It was only a wee bit warmer than outside, and she shivered. She stilled until her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. The first morning light crept through, enabling her to see objects, then the animals.

  One of the horses neighed, then several others joined the chorus. She did not know if they were voicing disapproval at being disturbed or hope that food was coming. She counted only five; the Inneses once had one of the largest and finest stables in the Highlands.

  She looked to see whether anyone stayed within the barn as did John and Jamie at Braemoor. There was no one.

  Bethia then studied the horses. Her own was very tired. If Anne was in residence, or any of her family, she felt certain she could borrow a mount. One of them, an older mare, appeared a possibility.

  She considered approaching the back door as a beggar. But better yet, she thought, to wait here and see if the same groom she’d met months ago appeared. She could discover from him the fate of Anne and her family. By virtue of the fact that Anne’s father had been too old to join the rebellion and Anne had no brothers, they may have escaped the fate of so many other Jacobite families. And perhaps they had heard something of the Black Knave.

  She went into an empty stall. Clean hay absorbed the chill from the dirt floor. She curled up in a ball. She would sleep for a few moments. Just a few …

  Bethia woke to a sharp kick to her chest.