Marguerite Kaye - The Highlander's Redemption

‘That’s what I’ve been telling her,’ Calumn agreed, picking up both the baskets, carefully stacking one on top of the other.

‘Don’t speak to anyone unless I tell you to,’ Jeannie said, setting off up the hill towards the castle at a pace which rivalled Calumn’s. ‘And don’t catch anybody’s eye, especially not Willie MacLeish, the head gaoler, he’s a lecherous old devil.’

Madeleine struggled to keep up in more ways than one, for Jeannie spoke as quickly as she walked, in a broad lowland dialect that she found difficult to follow. She was reduced to nodding and smiling as Jeannie continued to rap out instructions and advice, concentrating all her efforts on keeping abreast of her two companions. By the time they reached the entrance way to the castle she was out of breath and panicky.

‘I’ll wait for you here,’ Calumn told her. ‘Just do what Jeannie says, she’ll keep you right. Bonne chance. ‘

Madeleine smiled bravely, wishing desperately that he was coming with her. He had an air of authority which she was horribly conscious she lacked. Without him she felt strangely bereft and extremely nervous.

‘Stick close and you’ll be all right,’ Jeannie said reassuringly and set off apace. The guards at the portcullis nodded them through, casting a curious glance at Madeleine, but making no attempt to stop her. They hurried on up the spiralling incline to another gate and finally entered the heart of the castle. A company of soldiers were being drilled in the courtyard. The distinctive clang of metal on metal came from the armoury in the far corner. A group of Redcoats lazed idly in the afternoon sunshine. To Madeleine’s relief there was no sign of her attackers from last night. Already it seemed like a lifetime ago.

The familiar scent of horse was strong. She wondered if Perdita, her own faithful white mare, was missing her daily outing. She wondered what Calumn was doing. He was a strange mixture, that one, as fiery as the whisky he consumed to escape his devils. As golden in appearance, too, and, she suspected, every bit as addictive. A pleasure to be paid for with a sore head—or a sore heart, maybe.

‘Auld Willie MacLeish.’ Jeannie’s warning voice intruded on her thoughts. A middle-aged man with wispy tufts of hair looking comically as if they had been glued on to his pate and a complexion like porridge awaited them at the entrance to the castle vaults. ‘Keep behind me,’ Jeannie hissed. She dumped her laundry basket in front of the man, neatly preventing him from coming any closer, and did the same with the basket Madeleine was carrying. ‘Here you are, Willie, I hope your hands are clean.’

Willie’s toothless grin was like a dank cave. He proceeded to rake through the neatly folded linen, causing Jeannie’s displeasure when he shook out a shirt and threw it back in carelessly. ‘Aye, that all seems to be right,’ he said eventually. ‘I see you’ve help with you the day, Jeannie—who’s this wee thing?’

‘She’s just a friend lending a hand.’

‘And what’s your name, girlie?’

Madeleine shrank back as the full impact of Willie’s body odour hit her.

‘Do you think we’ve got all day?’ Jeannie said sharply, poking the man in the ribs. ‘I’ve plenty other customers to see to after this, you know.’

Willie cackled. ‘I bet you have, Jeannie Marshall,’ he said with a leer, but to Madeleine’s relief he led the way towards a heavily studded door and began to apply his keys.

Though she had been warned, Madeleine was appalled by the conditions, unprepared for the human suffering which confronted her. Her admiration for Jeannie grew as she watched her call out cheery greetings before producing an astonishing assortment of goods from the capacious pockets of her petticoats, including tobacco and some flasks of whisky. Many of the prisoners were Jacobites, but some were common felons awaiting the gallows. With Jeannie’s help Madeleine spoke to any who would listen to her, but none had anything to say about either the Royal Scots or Guillaume, the Comte de Guise.

Deeper down the cells were much smaller, the prisoners manacled and the requirement for laundry sparse. It was with relief that Madeleine followed Jeannie back to the main door. ‘Have you known Calumn long?’ she asked as they waited for the gaoler to return and let them out.

Jeannie drew her a knowing look. ‘I met him when he came back to Edinburgh after he left the army. He’d been a Redcoat, even been stationed here at the castle once, so he told me. My brother Iain has ambitions to join the army too, so I asked Calumn if he could give the boy a bit of a head start. That’s when he offered the sabre lessons. Calumn’s good company, we have a bit of a laugh and a joke together, but that’s all there is between us.’

‘He was a soldier?’

‘A captain, no less. He doesn’t talk about it, mind, I’m not sure why. It’s a touchy subject with him.’

‘Did he fight in the Rebellion?’

‘I don’t ken. I told you, he doesn’t talk about it, and if I were you I wouldn’t go prying. Calumn Munro’s not someone who would take kindly to your poking your nose into his business.’

‘What about his family?’

Jeannie shrugged. ‘They’ve lands somewhere in the Highlands. He doesn’t talk about them either. Calumn has been a good friend to me and my brother, but you’d be wise not to get any ideas about him. He’s what we call a charmer.’ She picked up her basket at the sound of the key grating in the lock. ‘That’ll be Willie. He’ll take us to Lady Drummond.’

The Black Hole was above the portcullis, so that the prisoners held there were under almost constant surveillance by the sergeants of the guard. The conditions in the other vaults were unhealthy, but the Black Hole was positively inhumane. Lady Drummond, a tall, thin woman with a Roman nose and piercing grey eyes, shared the small space with her two daughters. She greeted Jeannie in a friendly manner, but, seeing Madeleine, immediately looked suspicious. ‘And who are you?’ she asked in a cultured voice with the lilt of the Gael.

Madeleine dropped a curtsy. ‘Madeleine Lafayette, madame. I’ve come in search of news of someone who fought under your husband.’

‘A Frenchman? They’ve all been deported, so I’m told.’

‘Yes, but Guillaume has not come home.’

‘Guillaume?’

‘Guillaume de Guise, the man I am searching for. Do you know of him?’

‘The Comte? I remember him, certainly,’ Lady Drummond conceded. ‘May I ask what he is to you?’

Quickly, Madeleine told her. ‘Please, if you know what became of him, I beg of you to tell me.’

Lady Drummond’s face softened marginally. ‘You must understand, mademoiselle, that the little I do hear I cannot be certain of. Rumours reach me, it is true, and I have my own means of communicating with the outside world, but—knowledge can be a very dangerous thing, in times like these. If I am discovered …’

The door at the foot of the stairs was opened and Willie MacLeish’s voice bid them hurry before they got him into trouble. Despairingly, Madeleine picked up her basket. ‘You’ve lost everything because your husband chose the Prince. I’m trying to prevent the same thing happening to Guillaume.’

Lady Drummond pursed her lips. ‘There is something. It surprised me, for it did not sound like the de Guise I knew, but—there is no saying what war will do to a man, and there cannot be two men with such a distinctive name. I can’t promise anything, mademoiselle, but if you’ll give me a little time I think I can find out his whereabouts. I’ll send a message through Jeannie, one way or another. Tomorrow, the next day at the latest.’