THE HONORS OF SCOTLAND
Fortress of Dùn Fhoithear, Scotland, Interregnum
The deep, hollow boom of cannon fire stopped Hannah’s heart, though she’d heard it a hundred times over the past ten days. Startled, she lost her footing again on the slime-covered boulders at the base of the rock face below the castle and winced as pain arrowed into her hip. Her bare feet were scratched and bleeding. Her bottom would be black and blue by the time the mission was accomplished—if she didn’t lose her nerve thinking about the wretched souls being torn to shreds by the round shot as it bounced inside the fortress walls.
Obliged by the outgoing tide to be on the beach on a rare clear and sunny afternoon, she’d gathered red dulse in the unlikely event she was being observed. The enemy never patrolled the inhospitable shore, apparently deeming the arrival of reinforcements by that route improbable, but better to be safe than sorry.
She’d tucked the skirts of her shift into the braided girdle at her waist. The wet seaweed stuffed into the copious folds quickly soaked through the thin hemp, chilling her thighs.
She craned her neck to look up at the tower that dominated the cliff, but could see no one. She chewed her bottom lip, resigned to waiting.
Dùn Fhoithear was aptly named—the fort on the shelving slope—but she took little comfort from the sight of the King of Scotland’s banner hanging limply in the salty air that stank of gunpowder and blood. The beloved red lion seemed resigned to defeat. The crumbling walls that had withstood one siege after another for centuries wouldn’t last much longer under the merciless onslaught of English artillery.
She plucked a few more clumps of dulse in an effort to shut out the cries of agony that reached her ears, though she was far below the carnage.
Movement in a tide pool drew her eye. A tiny brown crab menaced her with its claws. She could crush it if she’d a mind, but the creature would be defiant to the bitter end—as would she and her fellow Royalists. “Ye’re a braw wee warrior,” she whispered, twirling a finger in the clear water. She withdrew just in time when the crab attacked. It retreated under a rock, but she could still see its black eyes peering at her and she no longer felt alone.
“Dinna fash, I willna harm ma only companion on this godforsaken shore,” she whispered.
The crab waved one claw as if it understood. Mayhap sharing her burden might loosen the knot of dread in her belly. “Aye. We dinna ken how many o’ Lord Ogilvy’s seventy brave Highlanders remain alive up yonder.”
The crab disappeared under the rock, leaving her alone with only raucous gulls circling overhead. She rubbed her upper arms. The sleeveless woollen tunic she wore over her shift provided no warmth. “Mayhap ’twasna a good idea to leave ma shawl at the end o’ the path.”
The thin wool would have provided some comfort, but she’d thought it might hamper her movements.
She chuckled with delighted relief when the crab reappeared. “Ye wish to hear the rest o’ the sorry tale? Weel, ’tis likely most o’ the defenders have perished during the eight months o’ siege.”
The cannon boomed again. The crab’s eyes darted here and there as ripples disturbed the water in its little pool. She gritted her teeth. “Yon artillery blasts have probably killed many more.”
Grateful for the unusually warm day, she still shivered. Her home lay far from this bleak eastern coast where the wind off the North Sea often bit into a lass’s flesh, even in spring. Though she didn’t know any of the heroic defenders, she grieved the loss of too many brave men.
The bitterness left a sour taste. “’Tis true for all o’ Scotland,” she muttered to the crab. “Sometimes it seems the English are invincible. For nigh on two years I’ve masqueraded as a camp follower—aye, me, niece of an earl, if ye please.”
She’d traipsed hither and yon in the wake of Cromwell’s New Model Army, carrying out successful disruptions carefully planned by her uncle. The nerve-wracking fear of being caught gradually subsided when it became evident no one suspected a peasant lass of sabotage. She enjoyed the relative freedom afforded by her disguise, though she’d be glad to be rid of the irritating peasant clothing. It was the reason she refused to give up the expensive linen chemise she wore against her skin.
Fending off soldiers who thought every female camp follower was a whore had been another challenge. She had learned more than she ever wished to know about laundry, nursing and cooking.
She twirled a finger in the crab’s pool again, but this time he didn’t retreat. “Ye’d ha’ laughed at the English soldiers at Din-bar running for the latrines, clutching their bellies after I tainted the mutton stew.”
She sobered quickly. That story hadn’t ended well. At the very moment the exhausted English invaders faced annihilation, they’d snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, taken the town and massacred the inhabitants. Her uncle, the Earl of Glenheath, ranted and raved about General Leslie’s strategic blunder, though she didn’t understand much of the talk of military tactics. She simply considered herself fortunate to have left the port when a Scottish victory seemed assured. Buoyed by their unexpected success, the English went on to take Edinburgh and sack Dùn Dè.
“I fled back to the safety of ma uncle’s castle at Kilmer,” she explained to the crab. “King Charles decided to take the fight for the throne to his enemy and marched into England. Glenheath declined to accompany him, citing ill health, but he confided to me his fear the expedition was doomed to fail. Despite all that had gone awry, I’d ne’er seen him weep until news was brought of the king’s flight to France after the disastrous defeat at Worcester in the English Midlands.”
Still, her uncle persisted in his efforts to persuade the clans to gather men for another army, one that could launch a successful rebellion.
“Then came the unwelcome news that Cromwell’s spies somehow knew the Scottish royal regalia had been whisked away to Dùn Fhoithear. He’s already destroyed the English crown jewels, now he wants to do the same wi’ ours.
“I must admit to ye, wee crab, I became obsessed with the notion of saving ma country’s one remaining treasure.”
The blood of innocents slaughtered during the mutinous rampage through Dùn Dè had to be avenged, but she doubted the crab would understand that notion.
“Can ye credit that the wretched officer who lost control o’ his troops and allowed the orgy o’ death is now in command of the siege goin’ on above. Ma uncle agreed to ma plan when it became clear Dùn Fhoithear would fall. And so here I am. One day King Charles will wear his murdered father’s crown. Thanks to me and thee.”
A distant shout caught her attention. She scrambled to her feet and hurriedly dumped the dulse out of the folds of her shift. The sacrifice of the men who’d died would be for naught if she broke her neck on the treacherous heap of rocks made round and slippery by the relentless sea. Better to pay attention to the task at hand instead of brooding on bitter memories and talking to crabs.
She looked up, calling upon the Lord God to visit all manner of evil on every soldier in Cromwell’s army.
The mumbled litany ceased abruptly when she espied a bulky figure atop the curtain wall high above, Lord Ogilvy himself mayhap. Her heart thudded in her ears—a large basket was already being lowered into her safekeeping.
She reached up and manoeuvred the basket to the ground, covering her head with her arms when the rope snaked its way down to fall on top of her. Trembling, she drew a dagger from her girdle and sliced through it. The basket was large, but didn’t seem big enough to hold all of the regalia. Mayhap the sword had been left behind—too long to fit.
Gulping air, she piled the coiled rope on top of the canvas-wrapped bundle inside the basket, then heaped dulse over everything. She crouched down to loop her arms through the leather shoulder straps. Filling her lungs, she struggled to her feet, staggering under the impossible weight. She sat back on the rock and slipped the straps off her shoulders, admitting reluctantly the burden was too heavy.
Strangely, the rapid tattoo of her heart calmed as she scooped out handfuls of dulse, removed the rope she hoped the tide would carry away, and put the dulse back. The crab had disappeared, but she bid him a fond farewell and set off to retrieve her plaid shawl from the path.
It was satisfying to think the English would never know what had become of Scotland’s Honors. Bent on destruction, they wouldn’t suspect the crown and sceptre had been smuggled away in a basket of seaweed by a lass named Hannah Kincaid.
~~~
Captain Morgan Pendray took up his usual post on the winding path that eventually led to the fortress gates. Once he’d given the order to load he preferred not to stand too close to the cannon. It had proven impossible to shake from his memory the tale told him as a lad by his Welsh grannie about a Scottish king blown to bits when his favourite Mons Meg exploded next to him.
It made no difference that the saker cannon was a vast improvement on the bombard that had severed King James’s legs nigh on two hundred years before.
The boom of the explosive charge was intolerably loud in any case, and he wouldn’t be surprised if eventually his hearing became impaired. Better to leave the cannon to the gunners. They were used to it. Most of them were losing their hearing and sometimes didn’t hear his command to Fire. He hadn’t reported their impairment, aware that doing so would result in dismissal. Even their uniforms would be confiscated. A bleak future awaited English lads stranded in the wilds of Scotland. They repaid his silence with unswerving loyalty. The youngest gunner was trained to keep a keen eye out for the exaggerated arm movement he made when he barked the order. Smythe was a willing lad who also served as his batman.
He’d grown supremely bored in the ten long days since he and his gunnery crew had arrived to bring about a speedy end to the siege. Cromwell was becoming increasingly impatient. Morgan privately thought the Protector’s obsession with the destruction of the Scottish crown jewels somewhat indecent. Provisioning an army fighting far from London was expensive and there was widespread opposition in England to already high taxes imposed to finance the Dutch War.
The nerve-wracking experience of transporting artillery, gunpowder and ammunition from Edinburgh to Dùn Fhoithear had necessitated changing the team of six horses every hour in the rocky terrain. The last stretch up the steep path to get within range had resulted in the loss of two valuable steeds, shot when their legs became entangled in the wheel spokes. The small garrison would have capitulated eventually, but now the proud old castle would be left in ruins, its defenders torn to shreds.
The tedious days consisted of repeating the same orders over and over under the watchful eye of General Abbott. Morgan’s presence was in truth superfluous, though he hoped the notion never dawned on his commanding officer. The gunners could likely load and fire the cannon in their sleep. The castle wasn’t a moving target. Once he’d calculated the angle of trajectory, and used the trunnions to raise or lower the barrel, the scything down of walls and men was relatively easy. Not that the brutality sat well in his gut. War was a ghastly business, but what was a landless Welsh nobleman to do in order to make his way in the world, especially with his wife dead and gone.
He supposed he should be grateful his older brother had obtained a commission for him. Aneurin had inherited the small family estate and was glad to see the back of him, but at least he wasn’t destined to be cannon fodder in Cromwell’s infantry. There was a faint hope his service would lead to some reward from the Protector and his parliament—if he gave a good account of himself. A man could only tolerate so many taunts from fellow junior officers about a Welshman fighting in Scotland for an English army.
When the latest round of shot chewed into the wall, he deliberately averted his gaze from the cloud of yellow dust to the distant cliff path. He narrowed his eyes against the late afternoon sun, startled by the unexpected sight of a raven-haired lass struggling up the steep slope from the beach. She was bent double under the weight of a basket she carried on her back. The checkered shawl most women wore around their shoulders was tied around her hips.
She paused at the top, slid the basket straps from her shoulders, straightened and stretched to touch the sky. It was a vision of innocent beauty amid the sickening slaughter. He sucked in a breath as the sight of her proud breasts and shapely figure stirred the interest of his tarse. In a trice she evoked wants and needs he thought grief had drained out of him.
He was tempted to rush over and offer his help when she crouched to lift the basket back onto her shoulders, but that was out of the question.
She’d likely taken advantage of the unusually warm weather to minimize the risk of injury on the rocky shore. He wondered idly what there was to collect on such an inhospitable beach. Seaweed mayhap?
He thought the lass was barefoot. He was too far away to tell properly, but most of the folk in nearby villages seemed to have no footwear.
His mind wandered. Surely they didn’t go barefoot in winter? What would they use seaweed for? Was it the girl’s flowing black hair that had caused the inconvenient arousal that swelled despite the notion tugging in the back of his mind that she was probably a camp follower. A laundress, mayhap, or a cook, or—his gut clenched—more likely a whore.
Shouts penetrated his reverie and drew her attention to him. The gunners had reloaded. Still fixated on the girl, he slowly raised his arm. She stared back, a stunning silhouette against the backdrop of the sea—a scene an artist might capture on canvas. For a moment he was afraid she might think he was waving, but she looked away and hurried off on the path to the south.
He thought it curious since Stonehyve lay a half hour walk to the north and Dunnottar an even greater distance to the west. If she was a camp-follower she was headed in entirely the wrong direction. He avoided the civilian encampment at the base of the hill, having seen enough of them to know they were controlled by unscrupulous sutlers. Soldiers’ wives and children often lived in wretched conditions with barely enough food to survive. This one had burgeoned into a sprawling conglomeration of tents and wagons over the eight months of the siege. Morgan preferred to rely on Smythe to deliver his laundry and procure any provisions he needed.
He risked a glance at the gunnery crew, but it was unlikely they could see the girl from their position, and they seemed to have noticed nothing untoward. Only the lad watched him expectantly, waiting for his signal to unleash mayhem.