Highland Tides (2 page)

“Then you’ve already decided their fate,” Charlotte murmured, “before they reach Tilbury.”

Her uncle’s shoulders stiffened. “Their testimony is written down and perused carefully before a final decision is made. If they’re sent south they’ll still be granted a trial.”

“May I help with the perusal?” she ventured. “We must ensure justice is done.”

“Out of the question,” he huffed. “These are military matters.”

Charlotte had learned much from games of Ruff and Honors and now played her trump card. John Campbell, Duke of Argyll, had thought the world of his pious older sister, taken from her family too soon. “Mama would have approved of my determination to make sure these men are treated fairly.”

Her uncle glared. “Augusta, can you not use your influence over your sister to temper her crusading?”

Augusta scoffed. “My influence? I have none over her, I assure you. She’s your niece.”

“Please, Uncle,” Charlotte cajoled, knowing he’d never deny her anything. “It is the right thing to do.”

He strode to the door. “Very well, miss. You’ve got your way, as usual. I’m off to change for dinner.”

The door slammed behind him.

“You’ve let yourself in for some sorry tales,” Augusta remarked, easing off her shoes. “Now be a dear and call for Simone to rub my feet before we’re summoned to table.”

Charlotte sipped her liqueur, savoring the taste of the saffron. “Go find her yourself.”

Pouting mightily, Augusta drained her glass then flounced off in search of Simone, her nose in the air, leaving Charlotte alone with her thoughts. She pulled the footstool over with her feet. Deceiving her frivolous sister didn’t bother her one iota. Indeed she relished the pleasure. However, misleading their uncle who’d welcomed them into his home when their parents were killed—that was a concern. He would not agree to her examination of the depositions of the prisoners if he was aware of the real motive for her interest.

A wisp of dread shivered up her spine when she contemplated her uncle’s wrath if he found out his niece was a widely-read published author.

However, her true identity was buried so deeply she doubted he would ever discover it. Her publisher didn’t know the popular novelist, Charles Tobias, was in truth Lady Charlotte Tremayne. Plato’s Head would never have published her novel
had they been aware she was a woman. As it was, they touted the success of the widely read
Picaresque Adventures of Pilgrim Peter,
rumored to be the most discussed publication in the famous London coffee houses run by Mrs. Rochford and Moll King. Even the members of the highly secretive Beggar’s Benison club were reported to have recommended it. She chuckled, wondering why wealthy Scottish gentlemen would choose such a name for their club. But men were strange creatures in any event. Some women batted their eyelashes when they spoke of males in hushed tones as if they were a gift from God. Charlotte didn’t understand the appeal.

She chuckled at the delicious irony of men wandering through Covent Garden and Charing Cross reading her story because they believed a man wrote it.

Now historic events had taken place right on her doorstep. Beneath her in the cells of Inbhir Nis lay the seeds of real life stories that might germinate into a novel with greater potential than
Pilgrim Peter
.

An exciting premonition that she was about to meet the hero of her next successful book danced in her heart.

Braden lost track of how long he’d been confined in the peculiar waiting room to Hell. He lined up twice daily with the other lost souls for the grey slop ladled out as food. He gradually got used to squatting over a drain in full view of the others to take care of his needs. He became inured to the stink of his own body. George Robertson, his companion, was too weak to stay on his feet for long, so Braden fetched him food and helped him to the drain. The soul-destroying boredom was the worst torment. Or mayhap it was the lice.

Some men were taken away and never came back. The word
tilbury
was murmured, but Braden didn’t understand what it meant. Others did return from wherever they’d been taken, so he assumed they hadn’t gone to
tilbury
. Mayhap it was the next stage on the descent into the depths of Hell.

George told him they would be brought before the Duke of Argyll, John Campbell, to be interviewed. He would decide their guilt or innocence. The mention of his native Argyll heartened him, but he had no doubt this Campbell would judge him guilty of responsibility for his brothers’ deaths.

As time dragged on, George became weaker. He talked of his parents and grandparents. Braden worried the auld man might die. But that didn’t make sense. He was already dead, wasn’t he?

One day, George abruptly sat bolt upright. “What was it ye said concernin’ yer sister and Robert Stewart?”

“Margaret is betrothed to him,” Braden replied.

George scratched his beard, seemingly deep in thought. “Did I tell ye ’twas my forebears captured Stewart and his accomplices after the assassination of King James?”

He decided to humor the wretch. “Robertsons?”

“Aye. Tannoch Robertson was Chieftain then and he swore to capture the regicides, but legend has it his brothers Rheade and Logan were the ones who apprehended Stewart at Blair Castle, along with his uncle, the Earl of Atholl. History reports their executions were gruesome. Queen Joan was vengeful.”

Braden’s thoughts flew to Margaret. If her betrothed had been arrested and executed, what had become of her? But to ponder on such questions was to fall into the Devil’s trap. Still he had to ask. “Stewart never married?”

“I dinna ken. Tannoch lost an arm in the capture of the third assassin, Robert Graham, but they ne’er would have tracked down Graham without Rheade’s help. He took his brother’s place as Robertson clan chieftain.”

It perplexed Braden that these tales seemed clear in the mind of a man who was failing, but he acknowledged clansmen were steeped in their clan’s lore.

The never-ending discussion among the other inmates turned on Bonnie Prince Charles. When he tried to change the talk to King James Stewart he was advised not to bring the notion up with the Duke.

He dreaded the day of his summons, yet a strange relief soared when he was finally hauled to his feet, chained to George and pushed through the iron grille that served as a door.

Then began an interminable climb up a dank stone stairway. George was soon in difficulty, his steps uncertain, his breathing labored. Braden put his shoulder to the man’s arse and shoved him up, helping him keep his balance. He had to admire Satan for the cunning punishment. He’d imagined fire and brimstone. This was worse. Mayhap the steps went on for eternity.

Eventually they staggered into blinding light and fell into a heap. The guards poked them with long metal sticks, rousing them to their feet.

“I thank ye, Ogilvie,” George rasped with a wink as Braden assisted him to rise. “For all yer help.”

He marvelled the wretch still had it in him to wink after what he’d endured, or mayhap he was squinting.

They trooped across a courtyard and it came to Braden he was breathing fresh air. His body was stiff and sore from lying on stone, and a dawn chill lingered, but he relished being outside. Never a man to spend time indoors, he filled his lungs. The salty tang on his lips reminded him of Oban and lifted his spirits. The sky was blue, exactly like the last cloudless sky he’d seen before being swallowed up by Corryvreckan. They were surrounded by the stone walls of a castle grander than anything he remembered from Argyll.
Inbhir Nis
George called it. He vaguely recalled that King Malcolm had built a castle of that name four hundred years before Braden’s birth, but this edifice was of much later construction than that.

They were herded through a narrow archway, up a shorter, cleaner stone staircase and into a spacious chamber dominated by a large, highly polished table. Behind it, in a well-upholstered chair, sat a man who couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a nobleman. Yet Braden had never seen the like of the clothing he wore. The doublet was red, the front edges trimmed with black embellished with gold stripes and disks. A fringe of gold tassels dangled from each shoulder. Beneath the doublet was a long vest of beige velvet, fastened with a myriad of shiny white buttons. The last few had popped open over a slight paunch. His frilled shirt was white and around his neck he wore a cloth, wound tightly and pinned with a jewel. Braden had an inkling the outfit was a uniform. This was no doubt Duke John Campbell. He didn’t look like a demon, though his stern expression was accentuated by his grey hair being pulled tightly back and rolled up around his ears in a peculiar fashion. Braden wouldn’t have judged him old enough for grey hair. He tapped his steepled fingers against his chin as he watched them enter.
 

George Robertson sniffled loudly then wiped his nose with the back of his hand, causing their linked chains to clink and clatter.

“Bow to his Lairdship.”

For the first time, Braden noticed a second man, attired in a red uniform with less gold trim, and three chevrons on his upper arm. His desk was smaller. On it sat quills and inks and what looked like fine parchment. A lackey. It was he who had barked the command.

Braden bowed his head, but George did not.

The Duke seemed disinclined to rebuke him for it.

“Robertson,” the second soldier intoned after consulting a parchment on his desk. “Taken prisoner at Culloden Moor.”

“George Donnachaidh Starkey Reid Robertson,” George replied, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “Fought with the Chisholm Regiment of Strathglass.”

The Duke arched a brow. “The Chisholms suffered heavy casualties at Culloden.”

It was curious the Duke wasn’t dressed like a Scot, yet his speech betrayed his roots. It reminded Braden of something he’d once been told concerning King James Stewart. The monarch spent his early years as a hostage of the English court and spoke with a trace of an English brogue. Had the Duke come to this Scottish Hell by way of England?

George swayed. “Aye. I’m the sole survivor of the regiment.”

Braden put his hand under his friend’s elbow. “With permission,” he said politely, “he’s an auld man, mayhap a chair?”

The soldier leapt to his feet. “Silence. Ye canna speak to the Duke unless called upon.”

“Sorry,” Braden said. “’Tis only that—”

“Silence!”

The lackey’s pudgy face flushed as red as a winter beetroot, but the Duke seemed mildly amused, the corners of his mouth edging up into what might be a smile. Braden held his tongue. Evidently consideration for the elderly wasn’t a notion respected at Inbhir Nis.

The Duke turned his attention back to Robertson. “You admit you fought at Culloden for the Jacobite Rebellion? I caution you that such an admission proves you a traitor to His Majesty King George.”

“Charles Stuart is the rightful king o’ Scotland, not yer Hanoverian usurper,” George snarled in reply. “I was proud to fight for my King at Culloden.”

The smirk on the lackey’s face as he recorded George’s words persuaded Braden this was obviously the wrong answer if a man wished to avoid Tilbury.
 

The Duke’s expression was bleak. “No choice then, George Robertson but to send you to Tilbury for trial.” He looked to his lackey. “Who’s next, Sergeant?”

While more documents were shuffled, George leaned into Braden. “’Twas my wish,” he whispered hoarsely. “I hope ’tis the noose for me. I’m too auld to be transported to Maryland.”

To Braden’s ears, Maryland sounded like a better fate than Tilbury, but he had no opportunity to ask what transportation was before the sergeant muttered, “Yer pardon, my lord, I’ve no papers for this man.”

The Duke drummed his fingers on the desk. “I gave strict instructions every prisoner was to be documented. What’s your name lad?”

“Braden Ogilvie, my lord Duke, from Oban.”

Campbell’s eyes widened. “Oban? In Argyll?”

“Aye. Son of Sir Duncan of Ogilvie House.”

The Duke frowned. “Ogilvie House, on the cliffs overlooking the bay?”

Braden’s heart lifted. “Aye. A grand house.”

The Duke’s scowl was unexpected. “You’ll have to do a better job of lying than that, Braden Ogilvie, or whatever your name is. Ogilvie House has been in ruins for nigh on two hundred years.”

Braden’s thoughts scattered to the four corners of the chamber, and he was relieved when George rasped, “May I speak for this lad, yer honor?”

The Duke nodded. “You’ve proven yourself a truthful man, if misguided in your loyalties.”

George again wiped his sleeve across his nose. “I swear on my life I ne’er saw this young laddie on Culloden Moor, nor in any other encounter with government forces. A mon can see from his auld plaid and simple ways he’s nay a warrior.” He raised his hand to his mouth as if to share a secret with the duke. “He thinks James Stewart is still on the throne.”

“The Auld Pretender?” the Duke asked.

“Nay,” George replied. “James the First o’ Scotland.”

The Duke studied Braden. “Assassinated in the fourteen hundreds by Robert Stewart? That King James?”

For the first time it occurred to Braden that mayhap he had indeed travelled to some time in the future. “I swear to ye, my lord Duke,” he said, his throat dry as dust, “when I drowned in Corryvreckan, James Stewart and his fair Queen Joan Beaufort ruled Scotland.”

The Duke leaned forward, glanced at George Robertson, then fisted his hands atop the polished wood. “You drowned? In Brecan’s Cauldron?”

“I did,” Braden replied. “In the year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Thirty-six, along with my two brothers.” He deemed it best to make a clean breast of things. “I caused their deaths.”

The Duke sat back and stared at Braden for long minutes before turning to the lackey. “I find no fault with this man. He’s to be freed. I suppose he should go to Bedlam if we weren’t stretched to the limits chasing Jacobite fugitives. But he seems harmless to me.” He narrowed his eyes at Braden. “Count yourself lucky and go home.”

The lackey spluttered, knocking over his chair as he got to his feet.