“Except that presumably the assassins are already on the alert, given that someone felt compelled to put a dent in your skull.” I helped myself to some of the cake before it all disappeared down Vincent’s gullet.

French, Vincent and I had repaired to the stone cottage before tea, the frightening accident in the stables having sent the Queen and her guests off to their rooms with cold compresses for a collective lie-down. The Queen had managed to choke down enough luncheon for a family of four before submitting to her attendants’ demands that she retire to her room and rest. I know, for I was there, seeing that the marchioness didn’t inhale anything she shouldn’t. My employer did me proud, however, forging with abandon through the courses but otherwise behaving herself. After luncheon, I put her down for a nap and escaped to the hut.

“Tell us again how it happened,” said French.

“I was followin’ Archie, just like you told me,” Vincent obliged. “’E went ’round the corner of the stables and I ’urried after ’im, peekin’ round to see where ’e’d got to. I saw ’im climbin’ up a ladder to the loft. ’E went inside and I clumb up after ’im.” He found a stray raisin on the table and put it daintily into his mouth. “When I got up there, Archie ’ad disappeared. I snuck round the place for a while but couldn’t see nobody. Then I ’eard voices and right then, I ’eard a noise over by the block and tackle. I crept over there, quiet as a mouse, but there was no one about. I was lookin’ down at the Queen through that there openin’, and the next thing I know, I’m wakin’ up in one of the stalls, my ’ead poundin’ like I’d been drinkin’ that swill Ned Palmer at the Helephant and Castle calls gin.”

Vincent’s wound had been cleaned and bandaged by Doctor Jenner, and he’d changed out of his bloody coat into a clean one. He looked rather cheerful, considering he’d been tomahawked and thrown into a stall down one of the shafts used to toss fodder to the horses.

French was turning a bun in his hands, staring absently at the wall. “It could be coincidence.”

“First the poisoned cocoa, and now the accident with the block and tackle?” I snorted. “I think it unlikely under the circumstances.”

“If the chocolate was poisoned,” interjected Vincent. “Wot’s ole Robshaw got to say about that?”

“Nothing yet. The tests at the laboratory aren’t complete.”

“Wish that bloomin’ cove would get a move on,” Vincent grumbled. “Wot’s ’e waitin’ on, anyway?”

French shrugged, shredding the bun into tiny pieces, which he dropped onto the table. “Suppose the incidents did not occur by happenstance. Does that strike anyone as odd?”

I hate it when French plays the bloody schoolmaster, as though we were all back at Eton, studying the classics. I thought for a bit. There was something unusual about the episodes involving the Queen.

“Neither seems to have been a serious attempt to kill her,” I said. “If you planned to poison someone, wouldn’t you make sure there was enough of the stuff in the drink to do the job? And as for the block and tackle, well, it made enough noise to wake the dead when it fell over. Even someone as immobile as the Queen would have plenty of time to get out of the way. If the nationalists do have someone in the castle, why haven’t they done as they’ve threatened and carked Her Highness by now?”

“Yeah,” agreed Vincent. “’Ow come the hassassin ain’t shot ’er or stabbed ‘er? ’Ow come ’e’s pussyfootin’ about?”

“Good question, Vincent. The nationalists made it clear they intended to kill the Queen,” said French. “We’ve assumed that meant a very public act, one in which the assassin himself might die, as a means of making a political statement.”

“Instead, the attacks on Her Highness have been the kind in which the killer remains anonymous. Obviously, he wants to remain alive and undetected.” I ate some cake and ruminated over a few things. “If these really were attempts on her life, the perpetrators are bloody clumsy, or the deeds weren’t meant to be taken seriously.”

“The nationalists’ idea of macabre fun? Frighten Her Highness to death instead of killing her outright? If that’s the idea, it hasn’t been successful.” French gathered his crumbs from the table and wadded them in his handkerchief for disposal. “The Queen refuses to countenance the ‘absurd notion,’ as she describes it, that anyone is trying to assassinate her here at Balmoral. She has complete trust in her servants and guests. Dizzy is about to pull out his hair. He’s begged Her Highness to return to London, but she says to do so would contravene dear Albert’s wish, and she refuses to go.”

“So we have two incidents, which might be accidents or warning shots across the bow or actual attempts on the Queen’s life. Which do you think it is, French?”

“The block an’ tackle fallin’ ’tweren’t no haccident,” said Vincent, “not with me gettin’ clobbered on the noggin like that.”

I had to admit he had a point. “So we eliminate the idea that the Queen has had a run of bad luck lately. Is the Marischal trying to put the wind up Her Highness’s sails?” I adopted my best Scottish brogue: “Here we are, Your Majesty. We can come for you anytime we want, so we’re having a bit of fun, watching you and your advisors squirm about like insects in a jar.”

“Except,” said French, “as I have already pointed out, she’s not squirming.”

“Dizzy is. And I’ll bet Robshaw’s not sleeping well at night. Have you spoken to him?”

“I see him every day, and I spoke to him after the affair in the stables this morning. He believes they were genuine attempts on the Queen’s life. But it’s his job to protect her, and hence you would expect the man to treat these occurrences as authentic.”

“We were told the Marischal was intelligent and forceful, and the Sons of Arbroath were a dangerous organization,” I said. “Is Robshaw’s intelligence wrong? Are we dealing with a group of bumbling clowns?”

“You may be correct, India,” said French, which shocked me so much I choked on a bite of cake.

Vincent shot to his feet, overturning his chair, and gave me a thump on the back. “Ya want to watch them raisins. You can swaller one down the wrong ’ole and kill yourself.”

I thanked him for his concern. Between French’s exuberant rescue in the stable and Vincent’s boisterous heroics just now, I was not going to be fighting fit in the morning. My ribs ached, and my spine felt as though Thor had been playing the scales on it.

Assured that I would live, French resumed his professorial air. “I believe you were right when you said the killer wants to commit the deed and escape, er, scot-free, as the saying goes. There would be tremendous publicity value in killing the Queen and evading capture. Just think of the effect on government officials and politicians. They’d be terrified that they might be the next victims. The Sons of Arbroath could create a climate of fear that sweeps the land, and engender contempt for the government for failing to catch the Queen’s killer.”

Vincent nodded sagely, as if he discussed the effect of political assassinations on public opinion on a regular basis. “That ole Marischal would be pleased as punch if ’e could stir up people like that. ’E’d be a legend.”

“Thereby attracting more supporters to his cause,” I said briskly. “Now that we’ve figured out these were real attempts on the Queen’s life and that the Marischal is behind them, let’s deal with the most important issue: who is he?”

“Robshaw has not turned up any evidence that Vicker, Red Hector, Skene or Munro have any affiliations with the Sons of Arbroath,” said French. “He finally heard from London this morning.”

“You’re joking,” I cried. “I found nationalist tracts in Munro’s room. Why would he keep them if he didn’t have an interest in them? Robshaw’s agents must be incompetent.”

“Or perhaps they’ve found nothing because there’s nothing to find. Someone might have given the tracts to Munro, and he’s thrown them in the drawer and forgotten about them.”

I sniffed. Munro didn’t strike me as being too lazy to ball up a political leaflet and toss it in the trash. He must have kept it for a reason.

“I recognize that stubborn look, India. I’m not saying that Munro isn’t a member of the Sons of Arbroath, only that Robshaw hasn’t turned up any evidence that he is. There may be an innocent explanation for the pamphlets in the drawer.”

“What about the revolver in Robbie’s room? I still think we should keep an eye on him.”

“I agree.”

“And”—I looked at French—“if you were paying attention at the concert last evening, you’ll remember that one of the verses of Burns’s song that Red Hector sang is printed on the leaflet I found in Munro’s drawer. You know the verse: ‘Lay the proud usurpers low,’”I began.

“Yes, I recognize the verse, and it had not escaped my notice that both Munro and Red Hector are acquainted with it. But then, I would expect most of the population of Scotland to be, as fond as the Scots are of Robert Burns.”

“That’s true,” I admitted. “Even the marchioness likes that ditty.”

“Well, then,” said Vincent (he’d consumed the last of the cake and was getting bored), “which one of them fellers is it?”

“The Marischal is reputed to be eloquent and charismatic,” I said, recalling our briefing from Dizzy. “I should think that would eliminate Vicker and Skene. From what I’ve seen of them, I don’t think either of them could inspire a thirsty horse to drink water. Vicker has the lineage and connections of a Scottish patriot, at least on his mother’s side of the family, but he hardly has an air of command about him. Half the time he looks as though he’d faint if you said ‘boo’ to him. What do you think of Skene as our villain, Vincent?”

“’E’s a nice feller, if you can keep ’im off the subject o’ John Brown, but I don’t think ’e’s a natcherall leader, if you know wot I mean.”

“Red Hector?” I asked French.

He shrugged. “He can gas on for hours about the evils of English rule and the plight of the Scots, but he’s usually in his cups when he does so. He had a perfect opportunity to pull a pistol out of his belt or the sgian dubh from his stocking and go for the Queen last night, but he sang instead.” His brow wrinkled. “I suppose I can see a group of inebriated Scotsmen following Red Hector to the nearest pub, but not to gaol, and certainly not to the gallows.”

“’E’s a blow’ard,” Vincent piped up. “’Is stable boy says that all’e does is drink and talk, drink and talk, and when ’e gets tired of that, ’e takes out ’is whip and lays into the ’elp.”

“That leaves Robbie Munro,” I said. “Who looks like a leader, with that square jaw and handsome physique.”

Both Vincent and French swiveled to look at me.

“What? I’m only saying that Munro cuts a fine figure. He has a soldierly look about him. I daresay he’d look a treat in a military uniform.”

I could see that French was not even attempting to visualize this image.

“And on that basis, you think he is the Marischal?” Did I imagine that French’s voice was the teeniest bit chilly?

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just pointing out that of the four men we suspect, Munro most looks the part. But I do not think we can discount any of them, except perhaps Skene. As a groom, he would have had a more difficult time than a guest or house servant in gaining access to the castle to poison the Queen’s cocoa.”

“The same theory applies to Vicker or Robbie Munro with respect to the stables; they’d have looked like fish out of water out there. Someone would surely have noticed the deputy master of the household or a footman fiddling about with the block and tackle.” French’s voice was still flinty.

“They could all be in league together. I have seen Skene with Munro.” I related my tale of the meeting between the two men outside the stables. There was a lengthy silence as we all contemplated this possibility.

Vincent brushed the crumbs from his jacket and burped loudly.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but hit seems to me that we ain’t any closer to findin’ this ’ere hassassin than we were when we rolled in’ere. Wot’re we gonna do next?”

“We continue as before. Keep watch on the suspects, and alert each other if something unusual occurs,” French said with authority, but even he seemed a bit downcast at our inability to lay hands on the Marischal. All it would take was one more “accident,” and the whole lot of us might be going back to London in disgrace, not to mention that we’d be accompanying the Queen in her coffin. It was a glum prospect indeed.

Our meeting broke up then. As we were putting on our coats, I pulled Vincent to one side. “Haven’t you got something for me?”

He grinned. “Aye. ’Ow much will you give me for hit?”

Cheeky sod. “I expect you carried off enough stuff to flog in London that you’ll be living like a king when we get back there. Now, give it to me.”

“You ain’t payin’?”

“It would serve you right if Superintendent Robshaw got an anonymous tip to search the stables,” I hissed.

“Oy,” said Vincent, feigning terror, “I’ll ’and it over, India. Promise me you won’t rat me out.” He extracted a bundle from his pocket, and I slipped it into mine.

French caught the motion from the corner of his eye and opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

That evening I brought the marchioness a cup of warm milk. The old dear grumbled a bit as she preferred her usual dram of whisky, but as I’d laced the cup with brandy, she greedily sucked it down and smacked her lips once she’d tasted it, pointing at the Bible and asking me to find a passage or two I thought might be appropriate for the evening. I selected something from the New Testament (the Apostles are so much more uplifting that those wild-eyed prophets from the Old). I’d read only a few verses when I looked up to see my employer’s eyes closing and her head bobbing on the pillow. I shut the Good Book, pulled the bedclothes up to the marchioness’s chin and blew out the candle. I smiled in anticipation as I shut the door to her room. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in ages, but I would tonight. In addition to the brandy, I had added several drops of laudanum to the marchioness’s milk, courtesy of Vincent, who’d lifted the drug for me from the chemist’s shop in the village.

It certainly hadn’t been my idea for the lad to clean out the place; all I’d wanted was the laudanum. Vincent, however, was a disciple of the temple that believed that the trouble with resisting temptation is that it might never come your way again. He also had an eye for the main chance and a nose for profit that would have done a Rothschild proud. I’d no doubt that stashed under Vincent’s cot in the stables was a sack stuffed with enough morphine, laudanum and chloral hydrate to render the entire population of Edinburgh unconscious. Vincent could have any price he asked in London. I can’t say that I blame the boy for taking the lot and selling it, as there didn’t appear to be any benefactors lining up to help the little bugger off the streets.

I, therefore, went off to dreamland with a clear conscience. Between sleuthing during the day, babysitting the marchioness at every meal, and renewing my acquaintance with Holy Writ into the wee hours of the morning, I was fair knackered. I fell into bed like a toppled oak, prepared to sleep the sleep of the righteous (and I’ll thank you not to point out that my claim to such status is dubious).

The sound of someone hammering on the door woke me. I shot upright, head spinning. My first thought was that I had perhaps overestimated the amount of laudanum necessary to render an ancient crone unconscious and had inadvertently killed the marchioness. That would look bad on the old curriculum vitae, not to mention being a criminal offense. Then the voice at the door penetrated the fog in my brain.

“Miss Black, Mr. French has summoned you.”

Even through the thick wood I could hear the disapproval in the words. I stumbled to the door and opened it to find a footman named Grant (or MacBeath or Macdonald—who remembers or indeed cares?), one of the elder statesmen among the crowd of servants employed at Balmoral. He was an evangelical Kirk o’ Scotland man—I could tell by the sour frown on his face and the disgust with which he informed me that a male guest of the Queen had requested my presence in his room. I could have informed him that French leaned toward the lesser offenses of blackmail, conceit and the odd white lie in the service of duty but had little interest in the sins of the flesh (at least to my knowledge, which, admittedly, was minimal in this area, French being as loathe to talk about his background as I was). I yawned in the footman’s face and informed him that I could find my own way to French’s room, which scandalized the fellow even more. He went away with his handlebar quivering, grumbling about Jezebel, Sodom and Gomorrah, and the morals of the aristocracy.

Flora was as still as a mouse under her covers, and I took care not to wake her. I found my traveling clothes and slipped them on in the dark, then took my coat and scarf from the wardrobe, and carrying my boots in my hand, slipped out the door. I felt my way to the servants’ stairs and lit the candle, shielding the flame with my hand. I sat on the top step to lace up my boots and then hurried through the silent corridors. The coat and scarf were a precautionary measure; the last time I’d shared an escapade with French, we’d spent a fair bit of time freezing off our fingers in a blizzard.

A thin wedge of light spilled out from under the door of French’s room. I knocked softly and he opened the door immediately, drawing me safely inside and conning the hall to see if anyone was about. He was dressed for the outdoors, in topcoat and muffler. I congratulated myself on my intelligence in foreseeing just this possibility.

“Vincent was here,” he whispered, pulling on his gloves. “Archie Skene and one of the other grooms slipped out of the stables an hour ago. Vincent followed them long enough to be sure he could stay on their trail, then raced back here to tell me. We’re to join him in the stables.”

“What’s happening?”

“A meeting of sorts, in the woods. Vincent will tell us more. Now hurry.” He shoved his hat firmly on his head. “We must get there as soon as possible.”

Vincent was hopping silently in place, blowing on his hands, when we found him at the rear of the stables.

“There you are, guv,” he said. “I scouted out the territory whilst you and India were puttin’ on your duds. Archie and the other fellow met up with some blokes out there in them trees. They got a fire goin’, and there’s people comin’ from all over to join ’em. I saw four or five slip out o’ the castle, too.”

“Maybe they’re off to have a drink together, away from the house,” I said, thinking of my warm bed and not relishing at all the prospect of a stroll through the snow.

“They may be ’avin’ some whisky, but hit ain’t a social affair,” said Vincent. “You’ll see when we get there. We’ll ’ave to be quiet as cats to get up close enough to ’ear wot’s goin’ on. Follow me.” He slipped away into the dark, and French and I fell in behind him.

The night was moonless, with a cold wind blowing off the icy peaks of the Cairngorms, scouring the snow on the ground and rustling the boughs of the spruce trees overhead with a devilish whine. It was not, in my opinion, a fit night for a party, unless it was being held indoors in front of a raging fire. I gathered my coat about me and pulled my scarf tighter. Vincent had struck out on a straight line due north from the stables, away from the trail the others had taken. We walked briskly for several minutes, covering rocky ground patched here and there with a light skiff of snow. We reached the tree line behind the castle, where the ground began to ascend, and the walking became more difficult. We inched up a rocky slope, brushing aside snow-laden branches and scrambling over and around granite outcroppings, some as large as a house. The cold air made it difficult to breathe, my ribs hurt like the devil, and I was winded in no time. We struggled on like that for a bit, with Vincent pausing now and then to correct our course, and me sobbing for breath at the rear of the column. You’d think an urchin from the streets of London would be lost within sight of the castle, but Vincent had the instincts of a Pawnee scout and the night vision of an owl (how else do you think a boy his age managed to survive in the Big Smoke?), and we trekked on unerringly, until ahead of us a tiny light gleamed in the darkness, and Vincent crouched low and crept forward slowly for a distance of twenty feet or so (it felt like a mile, waddling forward in the that thigh-burning posture), then halted abruptly, dropping to his haunches behind a waist-high cairn of rock, which afforded us an excellent vantage point of the scene below. French and I knelt, and peered over the edge of the cairn.

“There they are,” Vincent whispered.

We had topped the crest of a ridge and were looking down into a shallow clearing, littered with huge boulders. Someone had lit a bonfire fit for Vulcan, with sparks leaping high into the air and giving off a great light that illuminated the two dozen figures gathered around the flames. The crowd contained mostly men, but there were six or eight women among them, easily marked by their skirts and bonnets. In the weird, flickering light the faces of the watchers were white and waxen, but for the few whose faces were shadowed, their eyes ringed with black. I shook my head, wondering if I’d accidently imbibed some of the laudanum I’d intended for the marchioness and was having a nightmare, having spent too much time chasing assassins and too little sleeping. But the mystery solved itself when I looked closer; the figures round the fire wore masks of varying shapes and sizes. I scrutinized them closely, and after a few minutes I was able to nudge French and Vincent and point out Skene, whose bushy eyebrows rested on top of a black mask like a dead mink draped over a curtain. I scanned the crowd, looking for the figures of Red Hector or Vicker or Robbie Munro, but I could not be sure if any of them were among the group.

There was no discussion among the congregation at the fire. They stood silently, facing the flaring light, seemingly oblivious to the biting wind. Vincent put his hand on my arm and nodded his head toward the encircling woods. A dark figure glided out of the trees and joined the merry band around the fire, then another came and yet another. It was eerie, sheltering there among the rocks with the wind gusting around us and those faceless forms gathered in the circle below us. Clearly, all that Bible reading had inflamed my imagination: the crowd below me looked like they were putting on a tableau of the ninth circle of hell, where traitors to their liege lords stood frozen in ice, as close to Old Harry as a sinner could get. Poetic and picturesque, you might say, if you hadn’t been freezing to death in the theatre seats and wondering what the devil was going to happen, as I was. I pushed the unpleasant images of Lucifer and his cronies from my mind by reminding myself that it was just old Archie Skene and his pals down there, no doubt enjoying a bit of playacting, but otherwise harmless. If their idea of entertainment was to wade through the snow on a bitter night and stand in a circle staring holes through each other, well, it’s not my place to judge. I’ve known stranger ideas of a good time.

Vincent clamped his fingers around my wrist, and French sat up straight. The crowd round the fire had stirred, turning expectantly toward a mighty spruce that towered overhead. Two human forms had appeared at the edge of the woods. There was a murmur from the masked audience, a throaty hum of affirmation and adoration that rose above the noise of the wind. The figures stepped forward out of the shadow of the tree. They might just as well have stepped out of a painting by Ronald Robert Mclan. Both wore tartan trousers (wisely, I thought, given what the wind might do to a kilt on a night like this), dark masks that covered their faces, flowing capes and soft Scotch bonnets.

One figure, the slighter of the two, sat down upon a boulder at the edge of the clearing, while the second, a brawny chap with the shoulders of Hercules, strode forward into the light. He flung his cape over one of those giant shoulders, revealing a brace of pistols in his belt. He raised a hand for silence, though he needn’t have bothered as a hush had descended over the onlookers at his approach.

“Friends,” said the tartan-clad behemoth, in a brogue so thick you could have stood a sword in it. “We have gathered tonight to affirm our bonds of loyalty and trust. The time draws near when the head of the Sassenach serpent will be severed from its body, and the rightful heir of King Duncan will reign once more in Scotland.”

This drew an appreciative chorus from the crowd.

“Wot the devil is a Sassenach?” whispered Vincent.

“From the Gaelic word ‘sasunnach,’ meaning ‘Saxon.’ It’s used now as a slur against the English.”

Trust French to take time to deliver a lesson in linguistics while treason was being plotted in the clearing below.

“Through many long years and through many generations, we have endured the English boot upon our neck. We have suffered and sacrificed for the English crown, sending our finest sons and brothers to die on dusty battlefields in far-off lands, to protect the rights of English merchants to rape and pillage these foreign territories. And why must we do this? Because there is no future for the sons of Scotland in their own land.”

The congregation was beginning to get worked up. At the speaker’s words, an angry buzz ran through the crowd.

“There are no prospects here for young men, and so they are reduced to taking the Queen’s shilling and boarding ships for Bombay and Mombasa, for Singapore and Cape Town. Our young women chap their hands doing laundry for the English overlords, and our old women pine for the youth who lie buried in the soil of India and Africa. Those who remain behind till the hard ground, dig the coal from the earth or fish the cold waters to earn a pittance. Our children starve and our women wither, while the English grow fat and rich from our toil.”

I found that a bit rough, as I was personally acquainted with quite a few Englishmen and Englishwomen who might have thought a Scottish peasant with a patch of corn and an outdoor privy had a damned good life. I stole a glance at Vincent to see how he was taking the news that the Scots had been supporting his lavish lifestyle, but he didn’t seem overly concerned.

The figure below us raised a hand again, but this time ’twas clenched in a fist.

“It is time that we reclaimed our birthright, as an independent nation of free men and women. It is time to cleave the Union between England and Scotland, and if blood must be spilled to affect such a separation, then so be it!”

There was a huzzah from the crowd. If this was the Marischal, I could understand the English government’s trepidation about the man; he had the silver tongue of a gifted orator. There were raised fists among the crowd now and a few cries of “Kill the bloody English” and “Off with the Queen’s head.”

“The Sons of Arbroath have pledged to rid Scotland of the plague of English pests. We wait only for the proper time to strike, when the royal imposter is beguiled into complacency and our act of fealty to our nation will shock the world. Victoria, for I cannot call her Queen, will not leave Scotland alive!”

This evoked a roar from the gathering, and I squirmed uncomfortably. If we were discovered now, the mob below probably wouldn’t hesitate to tear us limb from limb, once they heard our English accents. Of course, they would likely go first for French, who was everything a posh English gentleman should be. That might leave time for me to rocket away through the woods while the Scots were occupied with striking their first blow for freedom against the hated English aristocracy. I was sussing out escape routes when French nudged me.

The seated figure had risen and now stood immobile with the cloak billowing about in the wind and the firelight playing across the masked features. It was a romantic scene, I’ll tell you, with the sparks from the fire flying up into the treetops and the smoke rising like incense, and the silent figure standing there as silent and inscrutable as an Oriental god.

The titan who’d been doing all the yammering stretched out a hand to the quiet figure. “Before you stands the instrument of Victoria’s destruction—the Marischal, whose life’s work shall be accomplished when Victoria lies dead.”

There was a great shout that shook the boughs of the tree and made my knees turn to jelly.

“You know the Marischal and the Sons of Arbroath are now hunted like stags through the fields and forests of Scotland. You know that we must hide our identities, and gather in secret in hidden glens and the caverns of the earth. But soon, very soon, my friends, the Marischal shall remove the mask and step forward as the rightful heir of King Duncan, restoring a Scot to the throne of Scotland and running the English cowards from our kingdom. The Marischal has come to Balmoral to see that our destiny is fulfilled.”

The crowd couldn’t get enough of this, and there was a deuce of a perturbation amongst the masked supporters, with enough howling and whooping to make you think you’d stumbled onto some pagan ceremony and the human sacrifice was just minutes away. I hoped that wasn’t true, as I didn’t stand a chance of outrunning French or Vincent if the mob decided that just any old victim would do. I was preparing my speech about being an innocent bystander, roped into this little jaunt by the unscrupulous English nob at my side, when the Herculean fellow spoke again.

He’d pulled a bottle from under his cloak and was holding it aloft. “Let us drink to victory and to a free Scotland.”

Like all good Scots, every bugger there had brought a cup or a tumbler, it seemed, and now they whipped them out and waited patiently while the big fellow went round the circle, pouring a jot into each vessel and saying a few words to each person, and now and then clapping some bloke on the shoulder in a gesture of manly concord. Lastly, he turned to the Marischal, who had produced a quaich, the shallow Scottish drinking cup, and poured a liberal measure for the boss. Then the Herculean cove filled his own quaich and raised it high in a toast.

“To the Sons of Arbroath,” he cried.

A ragged echo rose up, and then everyone of that assembly quaffed their thirst.

Again, he raised his quaich to the stars. “To the Marischal.”

There was a general hue and cry over this, and the Marischal nodded humbly at this recognition of his superior personage.

For the last time, the giant lifted his quaich and shouted, “To a free Scotland!”

The folk in the firelight went off like a sell-out crowd at the local football derby.

Then they all crowded together with their arms wound round each other, including the big man and the Marischal, and they raised their voices in a ringing chant. “As long as but a hundred of us remain alive, never will we on any conditions be brought under English rule. It is in truth not for glory nor for riches nor honours that we are fighting, but for freedom—for that alone which no honest man gives up but with life itself.”

It was stirring stuff, no doubt, and I felt like rising to my feet with a great cheer and hurrying down to the clearing to join these brave men and women in ridding the Scottish ship of English rats, but French put a restraining hand on my arm and gave me a look that made me sink back to my knees. I could tell he’d found it rousing as well, though, for his eyes were bright, and I thought I detected in the firelight a faint flush on his cheeks. Later, he told me that those words came from the Declaration of Arbroath, written over five hundred years before, when the Scots had had a bellyful of the English Edward I crushing their attempts at rebellion. As I have learned, the Scots have long memories.

The toasts seemed to mark the end of the formal portion of the meeting, for bottles of whisky were dragged from pockets and haversacks, and the crowd settled down for some serious tippling. The next item on the agenda appeared to be getting blind drunk, which would provide us the perfect opportunity to steal away and return to the safety of the castle. French leaned over to Vincent and whispered in his ear, gesturing at the Marischal, and I was sure the lad had just received instructions to tail the slim figure. Sure enough, Vincent half rose, balancing on his toes, ready to follow the scent when the Marischal and the bruiser took their leave. French touched my hand and jerked his head, indicating that we should retire in the direction from whence we’d come—a very good plan, I thought, as the only thing worse than a mob of fanatics intent on spilling English blood was a mob of drunken fanatics intent on spilling English blood.

The two tartan-clad figures had taken their farewells and were moving toward the tree line, French and I were backing slowly away from our hiding place, and Vincent had taken one covert step to follow our quarry, when the most awful thing happened. Usually, you can depend on Vincent to be as silent and stealthy as a Thuggee, but tonight his (and, consequently, our) luck turned. His step dislodged a stone, which bounced down the hill toward the fire, and as it bounced, it collected pebbles and gravel and other stones until there was a veritable torrent of rubble headed toward the nationalists. Worse luck, they were all still sober, and it didn’t take long for one of them to spy the avalanche of rock descending toward them and raise a shout that reverberated around the clearing. The Marischal took one look and scampered into the woods like a startled rabbit, while his companion drew his pistols from his belt and ran toward the commotion, signaling to the others to follow him. The crowd let out a lusty roar, and a dozen sgian dubhs winked in the firelight.

“Confound it,” said French. “Run, India.”

I had no need of such instructions; I had already bolted and was running at full speed, spurred on by the image of being carved up like a roasted ox by the screaming horde behind me. A few steps into my flight, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was in relation to the castle, having spent the trek here following blindly behind French and Vincent. Next time, I would pay more attention. I ran on, stumbling over rocks and colliding now and then with a tree. The nasty things made a habit of looming up out of the darkness at the last minute. I had taken a few thumps and scratched my face on a spruce bow when I pulled up for a moment to catch my breath and get my bearings. I turned, half-expecting French to be at my heels, but he was nowhere to be seen. Where had the bugger got to? Without him, I was as likely to end up in Glasgow as at Balmoral.

Away to my right, I heard someone hurtling down the slope, crashing through the trees and bellowing like an angry bull. French, I thought, but what the devil was he doing? Then I heard the yelps behind him, and cries of “Over here,” and “There he goes!” I felt a surge of affection for the bloke then, for it was clear that French was deliberately drawing our pursuers after him, giving me the chance to slip away undetected. It was damned sporting of the man and completely in character. I resolved to be a bit nicer to the cove and thank him properly, if I ever found my way back to the castle and he escaped from the howling mob behind him. I thought it more likely that the former would occur than the latter; I might be lucky enough to stumble upon Balmoral by morning, but French had a habit of taking pratfalls in the snow and being ambushed by villains, as I’ve recounted in my previous tale of adventure. I wasn’t worried about Vincent, as he could hide behind a snowflake and would no doubt be snoring in his bed while I was still trudging through the woods in search of the castle.

It was a bloody long night. After the hue and cry had died away (though it still continued in the distance, as the nationalist band pressed on in pursuit of French), I spent a good many hours walking around with my hands held out in front of my face, bumping into tree branches and great boulders, turning my ankles a half-dozen times on the uneven ground, and generally careering about like a ship without a sail. The first rays of the sun had just touched the summits of the Cairngorms when I caught the scent of wood smoke in the air and spied the chimneys of the castle. I must have walked over half of Scotland by then. I was exhausted, hungry, bruised and battered when I staggered into the stable yard and tapped at the window of Vincent’s room. The sash flew up instantly and Vincent looked out. He looked a bit worse for the wear as well, with a brutal cut from a tree limb across his cheek and bits of leaves and sticks decorating his hair.

“Blimey, where you been, India? We thought you was lost.”

“We?”

“French and me.”

“So he made it back safely?”

“Aye, ’e made it to ’is room a couple of hours ago. ’E said if you didn’t come back by daylight, we’d ’ave to go lookin’ for you.”

I found their masculine concern irritating. If they hadn’t left me alone out there in the woods in the first place, I’d have been in bed hours ago. And I’ll thank you not to point out the logical inconsistency of thanking French for drawing off my pursuers and then blaming him for deserting me. In my defense, I need only point out that I am a woman and thus entitled to entertain as many logical inconsistencies as I please.

“Well, I have returned safely, so you two can rest easy now. Did you follow the Marischal? Did you see who it was?”

Vincent shook his head mournfully. “I tried, but them nationalist buggers was all over the place, ’untin’ me down like a bloody jackal. I ’ad a ’ard time shakin’ ’em. They was on my ’eels all night, and I didn’t take an easy breath till I made the stables and shut the door and crawled under me cot.”

“Could you tell how many people returned to the castle?”

“A ’alf dozen, at least. Maybe more. ’Twas ’ard to count ’eads whilst them fiends was bayin’ for me blood. Not to menshun hit was dark as the inside of a helephant out there. You better get on into the ’ouse. French said we’d meet again soon.” Vincent slid down the sash and disappeared from view.

I hobbled across the courtyard and into the castle. Dawn had yet to break, but already there were a few servants about, lighting fires and lamps, and getting ready for another day of activity. I climbed the stairs wearily and cracked the door to Flora’s room as quietly as I could. There was a hump in her bed, and I heard her breathing gently. I pushed the door to, wincing as it closed with a sharp click, then sat on my bed to take off my boots. My head was swimming with fatigue, and my fingers fumbled the laces.

“And how was your night of sin, my girl?” Flora asked, with a laugh in her voice.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Rather difficult to sleep through old Grant knocking on the door in the wee hours and you dressing up for a ramble with Mr. French.”

I yawned widely, my jaw creaking. “My night was exhausting,” I said honestly.

“Weel, now.” Flora giggled. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. I’m a simple country lass, I am, and there are lots of things I’d like to know.”

I threw a pillow at her and collapsed on the bed.