WAR WOUNDS
Hannah resisted sleep for as long as she could, but the slow, steady rhythm of the journey eventually won out over caution. She’d need her wits about her when they arrived in Bouchmorale.
She jolted awake when the wagon came to a stop, disoriented by the darkness. It should have taken only an hour to get to the hunting lodge. “Where are we?” she whispered.
There was no reply, but the wagon swayed as someone climbed down from the front-board, then the horse was unhitched.
She’d expected Bouchmorale to be noisy, but an eerie silence prevailed.
The blinding light of a lantern flooded the back of the wagon, preventing her from seeing who held it aloft. “Come on out.”
“Esther?” she murmured, clutching her shawl. “Where are we?”
“Braemar. Took us a mite longer than usual to get here. Had to avoid Bouchmorale.”
Shivering, Hannah climbed out of the wagon. “I dinna understand. I thought that’s where we were going.”
Solomon appeared. “So did we, till you told us of the surrender. Now we’re headed for Edinburgh.”
Hannah curled her fingernails into her palms, sure this must be a nightmare. “Cromwell controls Edinburgh. Why go there if ye wanted to avoid English troops?”
“Did Maggie speak true?” Esther suddenly asked. “Is Glenheath your uncle?”
The question took her aback, and she realized for the first time Maggie was nowhere about. “Aye, but…”
“Abbott will take Glenheath to Edinburgh. That’s where the future of Scotland will be decided.”
None of this made sense. “But where is Maggie?”
“Gone,” Solomon replied. “We can’t trust a spy who plays both sides.”
He held her up when fear buckled her knees. Had he murdered the woman? She longed for Morgan’s reassuring embrace, but he was in Bouchmorale and she was bound for Edinburgh. She might never see him again. Her heart broke in two as she wept into the Jew’s rough woollen coat.
~~~
Morgan woke to sunlight streaming through a small window above his head. From the rough planked walls, he assumed he was still in the hunting lodge at Bouchmorale. The beam cast its light on a girl dozing in a chair in the corner. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the dust motes, hoping it was Hannah, but knowing in his heart it wasn’t.
He groaned, startling her awake. She scrambled out of the chair, eyes wide, staring at him like a deer with its gaze fixed on the hunter. Her peasant garb indicated she was a maidservant, a child of ten or twelve summers.
“GeneralAbbottwishedtobetold,” she babbled before hurrying out the door.
He sat up on the side of the high bed, legs dangling. He vaguely recalled Murtagh tending him. An examination of his injured hand revealed new bandages had been applied. Whatever the blacksmith had given him, he felt better. The fever was gone, and the throbbing pain had eased to a dull ache.
But where was Hannah?
“Good to see you awake,” Abbott declared as he strode into the small chamber.
Morgan stood, but had to keep his thighs pressed to the mattress. Without thinking, he saluted with his right hand, regretting it immediately. Curious how a finger he no longer possessed could still hurt like the devil.
“Sit, sit,” Abbott insisted with a smile.
Morgan obeyed, noticing for the first time he was clad in a nightshirt—his own. Abbott apparently made note of his preoccupation with the sleeves. “First rate batman you have, Pendray. That young man has taken excellent care of you.”
Smythe, not Hannah.
“How long have I lain here, sir?” he asked.
“Three days. Your doctor tells me it will be a few more days before you can travel.”
Three days!
“Travel?” he parroted.
“Glenheath and I have hammered out an agreement. His men will be taken to prison in Aberdeen.”
Morgan estimated the Highlanders faced a journey of mayhap fifty miles. He’d heard reports of prisoners of war dying of starvation en route to English prisons, and knew them to be true. He still had no idea of Lord Ogilvy’s fate. His belly churned whenever he thought of Lady Ogilvy. Abbott had promised him a reward. “I’d like an assurance it won’t be a hunger march, sir.”
The general narrowed his eyes. “That’s what I like about you, Major. You’re forthright. I’ve guaranteed all the earl’s men will arrive in Aberdeen in good health and will be treated humanely when they get there.”
Morgan breathed a little easier. It seemed he was still a major, so he soldiered on. “And the earl himself, sir?”
“He and his commanders will accompany us to Edinburgh to await Cromwell’s judgement.”
“Us, sir?”
Abbott sat down in the chair vacated by the maid, tapping the end of his nose with steepled fingers. “Hartlock will be taking the army on to Inverness to secure the Highlands. Whether you like it or not, your war wound renders you unfit to continue serving in your current capacity.”
Morgan almost laughed out loud. The wound inflicted by the warrior badger was going to cost him his career. “Sir,” he mumbled.
“When I reach Edinburgh, I’ll be invested as Governor of Scotland. I’ll need an adjutant I can trust implicitly. How does Colonel Pendray sound?”
Morgan had a lunatic notion to retrieve the badger’s body in order to have it stuffed and mounted. “I’m speechless, sir,” he rasped.
“Few officers in the English army can claim to have earned the trust of a Scotsman, yet Glenheath speaks highly of you. I think your being Welsh will be a great asset as we seek to restore peace to this land.”
Morgan could almost hear his grannie cheering from the grave.
Abbott got to his feet. “I won’t shake your hand just yet, and I’ll leave you to rest.”
Morgan lay back against the bolster after the general left. He should be elated, but the honor bestowed on him meant nothing if he couldn’t share it with Hannah, and he had no inkling where she was.
Smythe popped his head in the door. “Shave, sir?”
Morgan scratched his itchy beard. “Definitely.”
The lad grinned, obviously relieved, and set about preparing the shaving equipment he’d brought. Then he stilled. “I took the liberty, sir, of unpacking your knapsack.”
Morgan knew what he’d found there.
“I didn’t mean to pry, sir, but I came across Mistress Kincaid’s shawl.”
A wave of longing threatened to swamp Morgan.
“I thought you’d want to know her whereabouts,” Smythe went on, “so I made enquiries, discreetly mind you. No one has seen her since we arrived.”
Morgan grasped at a straw. Mayhap the Jew was hiding her. “What about Solomon Jacobs? Is his wagon here?”
Smythe shook his head. “No, sir. I think he stayed in Beannchar.”
She was gone. It was better she disappear, safe from Cromwell’s wrath. “Fetch me the shawl,” he rasped.