by Amanda Scott
She made a wry face at him as she hugged Molly. “But where is Patrick?” she asked again. “I am delighted to see you both, of course, but he did say he would come for me.”
“My dear Barbara,” Lady Chisholm said with a fond smile, “do let them sit down before you demand all the gossip from Stirling and beyond.”
“Yes, madam, I beg your pardon.” Obediently Bab sat down again.
“Patrick is at Dunsithe,” Fin said, referring to the border stronghold that had come into his possession upon his marriage to Molly. “I asked him to stay there.”
Knowing that the Laird of Kintail’s request was as good as a command, Bab said with a sigh, “Isn’t he coming at all, Fin?”
“Not straightaway,” he said. “Jamie is gathering forces in the Borders, hoping to keep his uncle Henry of England on his own side of the line, and Patrick must stay at Dunsithe until I raise men in Kintail and we ride south to join him.”
“But what about me? Am I to go to Dunsithe then, too?”
“Nay, lass,” Fin said. “I’m taking you home to Ardintoul.”
Bab sighed. The worst part about being a woman, she decided, was that no one ever asked for her opinion or considered that she might want to choose her own course.
Aboard the Marion Ogilvy in the Tyrrhenian Sea
When shouts came for all hands to assemble on deck, he calculated that they were off the west coast of Italy, nearing Rome. The Marion Ogilvy had no regular route that he could work out. She seemed to sail at the whim of her owner or captain and was certainly no mere merchant’s ship.
He had long ago deduced the identity of the ship’s owner from various bits of information, not least of which was the name Marion Ogilvy. More than a decade had passed since Davy Beaton had decided to take holy orders with an eye to replacing his uncle, then Archbishop of St. Andrews. But when he had decided upon that course, he set aside his wife, Marion, and their several children with the full dispensation of the Holy See in Rome, to become a priest.
The whole business had created a scandal the length and breadth of Scotland. Even so, most folks discredited the notion that such a jumped-up priest could ever become an archbishop. But Davy had fooled them, taking his uncle’s place upon that gentleman’s death just as he had said he would and then going on to become Cardinal Beaton and the Lateran Legate in Scotland, all without having set Marion Ogilvy and his children aside in any way other than name.
He was turning to answer the call for all hands when Tam intercepted him.
“Lad, we must do summat. Gibson’s going tae flog Willie Armstrong!”
“Young Willie? What for?”
“For nowt,” Tam said with disgust. “That bastard Gibson goes for ’im every chance he gets. They do both be Border bred, so ’tis just feuding, like as not.”
That made sense if anything aboard the Marion Ogilvy made sense. He followed Tam to the main deck, where hands were still shuffling into place and where Gibson, the first officer, stood by the grating smirking as he waited for them to bring Willie Armstrong for his punishment. The sun was shining, the shrouds creaked, and white tops flew from the waves in showers of spray.
Watching two burly sailors drag the skinny little Borderer forward and fling him against the iron grating made something snap in him. Angrily, he strode forward and confronted Gibson.
“That lad has done naught to warrant this, Gibson, and you know it. If you must flog someone today, how about me?”
The first officer glowered at him, but he had to look up nearly a foot to do so. “I be Lieutenant Gibson tae ye, ye scrofulous malcontent, or sir. And it would be a right pleasure tae flog ye, so dinna tempt me.”
He glowered right back, his arms folded across his chest.
Gibson glanced at Willie Armstrong. “Ye’d really take his place?”
“I said I would.”
“D’ye ken what penalty he faces?”
He shrugged.
“A hundred lashes for insubordination. Ye still want tae take it for him?”
His skin crawled at the thought of what a hundred lashes would do to it. He had too little meat on his bones to protect them, if anything could protect a man against a bullwhip, but Gibson’s lads would kill Willie with such a flogging. He gestured to them to pull the lad aside, and then he strode to the grating.
As the two were shackling him to the grating, the bosun shouted from the forecastle, “Land ho off the larboard bow! All hands to for losing way!”
Gibson chuckled. “Aye, well then, ye can wait yet a while, me lad. We’ve business and all tae tend afore we tend tae ye. Release him, lads, and we’ll get a bit more work out o’ the man afore we give him his hiding.”
In minutes, they had dropped the anchors, furled the sails, and the swarm of men in the rigging had descended to the deck. The Marion Ogilvy’s banners and flags still flew gaily, and her officers leaned over the bulwarks and waved.
On the shore, vendors had already gathered. He saw men selling chickens and pigs, women in bright dresses, and children and dogs darting everywhere. Some of the women wore the bright yellow wrappers and veils that, as he had learned on his first trip, marked them as prostitutes. Not that the knowledge could do him any good even if he were a man who indulged himself with strumpets, for here as in all other ports, he would remain aboard ship.
Before sundown, they had chained his leg irons to the standing rigging to ensure that he would not try to jump ship, and soon afterward, a Venetian galley dropped anchor nearby. In the dusky light, he could see galley slaves taking the air on its deck, their high red bonnets and bare backs marking them clearly for what they were so one would not mistake them for honest crewmembers.
“D’ye see them lads?” Gibson said with a sneer as he checked the shackles. “I can arrange for ye tae join them if ye continue wi’ your insolence. How’d ye like tae be chained tae an oar sixteen hours out o’ twenty-four and flogged whenever they want more speed out o’ your oar?”
“If we are to speak of preferences…”
“Och, aye, ye’d prefer tae take Willie Armstrong’s flogging. I remember. Well, barring any bad omen, such as a crow in the rigging or news that a crew member ha’ dreamed o’ black goats, we’ll be away wi’ the morning tide, and ye can ha’ your flogging then.”
“We’re here only overnight?”
“I ken fine that ye’d prefer a long visit,” Gibson said with a chuckle. “But ye dinna give the orders, and Rome provides nae safe harbor, so we’re off tae Naples tomorrow. ’Tis a hundred miles, so we’ll ha’ plenty o’ time for a good flogging”
“Don’t you want to go home, Bab?” Molly asked at supper that evening, after they had spent the afternoon in a flurry of packing.
Fin frowned as if he disapproved of the suggestion that Bab might not want to do as she was bid, but Molly gave him a look, and he held his peace.
In that moment, Bab realized she did not know what she wanted. Although she chafed at the confinement and the lack of things to do at Dundreggan, she was no longer so sure she wanted to leave. She certainly had reason to go, though.
Much as she liked Lady Chisholm, she was bored. Thanks to her ladyship’s preference for indolence, Dundreggan provided few outlets for her energy. Chisholm slept much of the day and spent his waking hours staring at the fire or looking through documents or accounts that Sir Alex placed before him, but he never so much as questioned them, let alone found any fault.
Sir Alex was kind to her and slightly more entertaining, but even when he rode out with her, his idea of exercise was to ride aimlessly along one track or another without any particular goal in mind, except perhaps to hurry back within doors before it rained and spoiled his doublet.
She told herself that she would be happier at Ardintoul, but on the other hand, the Fox was active in Glen Affric and Glen Mor, both many miles from Kintail and Ardintoul. He had never, to Bab’s knowledge, shown himself in Kintail, and she had barely had a chance to become acquainted with him.
&
nbsp; Recalling what he had said about being drawn to her, she wondered if he would follow her home. But despite his words, he had not managed to steal even a few more moments with her at Dundreggan, so the likelihood was that if she went home, she would never see him again.
“Bab?”
She looked blankly at Molly, who gazed expectantly back at her. Realizing that she was still waiting for her to tell them what she wanted to do, Bab said, “Will Patrick stay at Dunsithe until King Henry returns to London?”
“He will stay as long as I want him to say,” Fin said. “Dunsithe is near the English line, so Henry might decide to add it to his holdings if he invades as he threatens to do at any moment now. He has been waiting impatiently at York for our Jamie, but Jamie has better sense than to join him so far inside his own boundaries.”
“Then Molly will stay at Eilean Donan,” Bab said, referring to Kintail’s primary seat at the mouth of Loch Duich, some miles to the west.
“Nay, she will not,” he said. “My lass stays with me.”
“Then I should go to Dunsithe, too.” As soon as she said it, she realized the notion held no appeal, so she was just as glad when Fin shook his head.
He said flatly, “As you have seen by his letter, Patrick’s orders are that you are to remain at Ardintoul with your mother, and I’ve promised to take you there.”
Bab opened her mouth to protest out of habit rather than from any wish to change his mind, but before she could speak, Molly said swiftly, “You know your mother would never agree to leave home again so soon, Bab, and in any event, she would refuse to make the long journey into the Borders.”
That point was unarguable. Bab had had all she could do to persuade her mother to journey comfortably by sea to Dumbarton and thence on horseback the short distance to Stirling. Even then, Lady MacRae had stayed barely a sennight before returning to the Highlands, and Bab knew that she had hated every minute she had spent at the royal castle.
In truth, Bab had no wish to leave the Highlands even if Fin would permit it. And since Patrick had decided she was to stay at Ardintoul with their mother, as he had made clear in his letter, she would never persuade Fin to any other course. Patrick had also written to Sir Alex, and although something in that letter had made Alex chuckle, he had not shared what Patrick had written with the rest of them.
At least, Kintail had not asked her yet about her journey from Stirling to Dundreggan, so she had not had to tell him about her abduction and rescue. She did not want to contemplate what he might say about that incident.
He was in a great hurry to begin gathering his men, and so early Thursday morning, Bab took fond leave of her hostess, the only one of the Chisholms up at that hour to bid her farewell, and set out for home.
Claud was sitting quietly in his mother’s little parlor when she entered and said abruptly, “I see your lass be leaving Dundreggan.”
Claud said swiftly, “Ye’re no tae help me wi’ this, Mam!”
“I ha’ nae intention o’ helping ye,” Maggie said tartly. “For once, things be marching peaceably betwixt yon Merry Folk and our Helping Hands whilst they wait tae judge whether ye and that fractious slut Catriona succeed in your tasks, so I came tae see that all here were in order. However…”
He sighed, knowing she could never keep out of his business. It was a sickness with mothers, he thought. “What?”
“A wee bird told me that ye did meet wi’ that wagtail Catriona again.”
“Aye, I did, and then ye spirited her away,” Claud said grimly. “Dinna think I couldna see your fine hand in that.”
“Spirited her away?”
“Aye, dinna try tae hide your teeth, woman. She were there one minute, suggesting we should exchange information for our common good, and the next she vanished. I havena seen her since.”
“By your troth?”
Claud nodded, realizing that he had said nothing about meeting Lucy, nor had Maggie mentioned her. He did not think he would tell her now, though, especially since she was frowning heavily.
After a long moment, Maggie said, “I ha’ had nowt tae do wi’ Catriona’s vanishing, lad. I only just heard that the shameless callet had been at ye again.”
Claud looked narrowly at her. Maggie’s power allowed her to do many things. Her temper was legendary, her methods of punishment terrifying.
But she did not lie to him.
Aboard the Marion Ogilvy
Overnight a good deal of activity ensued, and before the new dawn glowed in the east, someone released him to climb the rigging with the swarm so they could begin unfurling the sails. He watched for Gibson, certain the man would wait only until the ship was underway before ordering him back to the grating.
Before then, he noted a new face gazing up at him from the quarterdeck. The man wore clothing that set him apart from all but the captain, and he bore an air of distinction that would not have been out of place at any court.
Twenty minutes later, with the ship underway, the expected order came.
“Stretch him tight,” Gibson said to the sailors who chained him in place.
Focused as he was on his immediate fate, it was a moment before he heard the angry buzzing or identified it as muttered protest from the hands gathered on deck to watch his flogging. The sound grew louder.
Hands clutched his saffron shirt to rend it from his back.
“Hold there,” an unfamiliar voice snapped. “Release that man.”
“Wi’ respect, sir, this be ship’s business,” Gibson growled.
“I’m told this man committed no offense.”
“That be for me as first officer tae decide,” Gibson retorted.
“Release him.”
And to his shock, the hands clutching his shirt released it to unchain him. As he struggled to his feet, the man he had seen earlier on the quarterdeck beckoned to him. Glancing at Gibson and receiving no order to the contrary, he moved to obey the summons. The relief he felt at avoiding the flogging made his knees feel weak.
“Do you know who I am?” his benefactor asked when he stood before him. Of medium height and slender build, he had the casual air of authority that bespoke breeding, and displayed none of the bluster that was Gibson’s stock in trade.
“Nay, sir, I dinna ken your name.”
“Nor I yours.”
“They call me Kit, sir, or Devil’s Kit. I ha’ nae other name.”
A slight frown creased the other’s brow, but he said only, “I am Sir Kenneth Lindsay. My uncle is Scotland’s ambassador to the Holy See.”
“What d’ye want wi’ the likes o’ me, sir?”
“I noted the shackles last night when I came aboard and asked a few questions. I’m told your first officer treats some men more brutally than others.”
“D’ye ken I be a prisoner, sir, bound tae serve me life aboard this ship?”
“Aye, I do, but one man does not stand in for another’s punishment.”
“Willie Armstrong didna warrant flogging, and they’d ha’ killed him!”
“I agree. Gibson must contemplate his practice of leveling more punishment against men of certain Border surnames, and I trust he’ll do so with an eye to changing that behavior. I’ll not have unfair treatment whilst I’m aboard this ship.”
“Then I hope ye’ll stay aboard her a good long time, sir.”
Lindsay chuckled. “Only until we reach Dumbarton, I’m afraid.”
“Aye, well, that’ll be a wee while yet. We’re for Naples, Brindisi, and Venice yet afore we turn for home.”
“There has been a change of plan, because I’ve messages that must reach Cardinal Beaton as soon as possible. We’re bound for Scotland with all due speed, and I’m a compassionate man, so if you’ve any message you’d like to get to your people once we’re home, I’ll be glad to see it reaches them straightaway.”
“Thank ye, sir, but I’ll send nae message.”
Chapter 8
Kintail’s party traveled by the shortest route possible to Eilean
Donan, a journey of twenty-five miles through rugged landscape made treacherous all along the way by melting snowbanks and fast-flowing rivers. It took them only two days, because Kintail knew the terrain and traveled fast. He, Molly, and their personal attendants had brought a minimum of baggage with them to Dundreggan, having sent their sumpter ponies on to Eilean Donan from Glen Mor by way of Glen Moriston and Glen Shiel. Bab and Giorsal carried only minimum baggage too.
Kintail had arranged with Chisholm to lend the two women suitable mounts and to send the rest of their things the longer way by sumpter ponies.
Their present route lay through high, steep-sided, rocky glens, first following the River Affric to the head of the glen, then through the high pass, down into the even steeper Glen Lichd, and along the River Croe into Kintail. Rain and snowmelt swollen rivers raced alongside them, and numerous waterfalls in full spate roared at them along the way. In many places, the riders had to dismount and lead their horses, but in general, the nimble Highland ponies managed the route with ease.
After a long, tiring day, they took shelter Thursday night with Mackenzie kinsmen near the head of Glen Lichd and then set out again shortly after dawn.
Mountains towered on all sides as they followed the river down to the broad flatness of Strath Croe, while the high peaks known as the Five Sisters stood guard over them to the south. Bab had known the Sisters from her childhood, because whenever she took a boat onto Loch Duich she could see their sharp peaks notching the horizon at the head of the loch. The perspective from Loch Duich was far different from Glen Croe’s, however, and when Fin told her that she was looking at the backside of her beloved Sisters, she found it hard at first to believe him.
They reached Loch Duich late Friday afternoon. The familiar journey along the loch passed quickly, but it was nearly dark when they reached Eilean Donan.
“You’d best stay the night here,” Fin said when they arrived. “I’ll take you across to Ardintoul in the morning.”
Asleep on her feet, Bab agreed. She had spent many a night at Eilean Donan, which was practically her second home, and she did not stand on ceremony. Giorsal fetched soup and bread from the kitchen for her, and when she had eaten, she slept.
