The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (25 page)

“Bram Stoker must have been a wee bit presentient,”
he offered with a smile, “because the castle wasn’t a ruin when he was here. Apparently, in an earlier draft of the novel, he had Count Dracula coming ashore here rather than at Whitby.”

She
gaped at him for a moment, feeling at a loss. “Are you telling me this place was the real inspiration for Dracula’s Castle?”

“Oh, aye.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. “He told me so himself
when he autographed my copy of the novel.”

As they walked toward the edge of the promontory overlooking the sea, she snuggled against his chest to shield herself from the
icy onshore wind. Or maybe it was the skeleton of Dracula’s Castle behind her giving her gooseflesh.

“And that’s why
you brought me here?”

“One of the reasons
.” He shrugged. “Being a vampire scholar, I thought you’d like to see it before they convert it into holiday rentals, which is the plan. Plus, I couldn’t think of a more fitting place to dispose of the poppet.”

The mention of the poppet sent a chill down her spine. For the moment, s
he’d forgotten Branwen, along with the threat of Fitzgerald. Worry besieged her. Would her spells work? Would they be able to stake him and cut out his heart? The thought of it sickened her, but not as much as the alternative.

He
stopped a yard or so from the edge of the cliff and let her go. Craning her neck to peer over the side, she saw waves tumbling over treacherous-looking rocks. Heart lurching, she stepped back and glanced at him just as he withdrew the ribbon-bound poppet from his sporran. With a swift snap of the arm, he pitched the bundle into the sea. As he did, the air caught his kilt, giving her a blood-warming view that took the chill off the wind.

“Why throw it now?”

“Why not?”

And then, she saw. The symbolism of the cliff. And the poppet. He’d thrown the past away
, broken the chains, let go of fear and doubt. He personified, in that moment, the card of The Fool.

Chapter
21: The Curse of Scotland

Gazing across the barren battlefield with her at his side, he imagined what it had been like on that fateful day: the deafening boom of the cannons; the crack and pop of musket fire; the clang and scrape of crossing blades; men and limbs falling all around; the steady deluge of snow and hail; the stench of blood, black powder, and death.

I
t was half past five o’clock. They’d made it as far as Culloden Moor, site of the most notorious defeat in Highland history. Dark clouds rolled across the sky, their shadows galloping across the moor like phantom horses. Dark hills cowered in the distance. All was unnaturally still.

His
Granda had been here. Not in the battle, but watching from the sidelines on account of his missing leg. How clearly he remembered the night the old man first told him the story.

It
had been cold—too cold to sleep—and he’d been shivering in his bed. The fire had died, but he didn’t want to wake the servants, who were warm in their beds. He crawled out, stomping his feet to stave off the cold, and grabbed the brass candlestick off the bedside table. Shielding the flame with a hand, he tiptoed into the hallway and down the stairs. All was dark and quiet save a rod of light under the library door. Approaching with hesitation, he softly rapped.

“Come in, laddie,” his
Granda’s gruff voice instructed. “It isna locked.”

A rush of warmth greeted him as he
pushed through the door. The air smelled of trapped smoke, ash, and aging leather. His Granda sat on the chesterfield sofa facing the fireplace, the roaring blaze casting flickering fingers of orange across his time-etched face. He wore a long tartan dressing gown and ruffled nightshirt. His good leg rested on the floor, his stump upon the seat cushion. He’d removed the peg, now propped within reach against the sofa.

“Am I disturbing
you, Granda?”

“N
ay. But what, may I ask, are you doing out of bed at this ungodly hour? Yer Mither’ll have your head if she should catch wind of it.”

“I ken that,
but canna get to sleep on account of the storm.”

His
Granda arched a ruddy brow. “Because of the noise or because you’re afeared?”

“I’m no
t afeared of a storm, Granda,” he said, trying to sound brave. “I’m not afeared of anythin’.”

“There’s a good laddie.” The old man moved his stump as he smiled and patted the spot beside him.
“Now come and sit beside your auld Granda and I’ll relay a tale that’ll carry you off to dreamland.”

The prospect of a story
hastened his heartbeat. He sat beside the old man, mindful of his stump. “Does it still hurt?”

“Aye, laddie.”
His Granda put a hand on his half-gone leg. “Sometimes, believe it or not, I still feel the pain all the way down.” His whisky-colored eyes twinkled. “What d’you think of that?”

“How’d it happen?” It was a question he’d b
een dying to ask ever since the old man returned from France, where he’d been living in exile since Culloden.

“Have I
not told you before?”

Wee
Graham shook his head.

“On the field at Falkirk, an enemy canon shot my poor horse out from under me. He was a damn fine beast
too, and I was that sorry for the loss of him...but the poor devil crushed my leg so bad the surgeon had to take it off.”

He
looked from the stump to the old man’s face. “Please tell me all about it. All about the Forty-Five.”

His
Granda chuckled and mussed his hair. “First, I need to ken if you’ve been studying your history.”

“Oh, aye. I have, sir.”

“Then answer me this: who was the man we call the Bonny Prince?”

This he knew as well as his own name. “Charles Edward Stuart
, the grandson of James the Second, the deposed king.”

His grandfather smiled. “And what prompted him to come to Scotland to start an insurrection in the summer of
Seventeen Forty-Five?”

“Because his
da asked him to...?”

“Aye. But, to the Prince’s great surprise
—and vexation—he met on these shores not with the rallying cries of supporters, but with the doubts and schemes of the clan chieftains. All the same, he succeeded in raising more than two thousand men, yours truly among them.” He paused for a moment to lick his lips. “We went first to Edinburgh, where we took Holyrood by storm, proclaiming James the Eighth forthwith. Three days later, we left the city, expecting to engage the government army twenty miles away. Learning they were just beyond, the Prince ordered us to ascend a hill overlooking their camp. At daybreak, we drove down upon them in a surprise attack. Most were still in their tents; many still in their cots. In fifteen minutes, it was over and done. And to the victor went the spoils: six cannons and a sizeable war chest.

“For the next six weeks, the Prince held royal court at Holyrood. The numbers of Highlanders grew, but the Lowlanders remained
unmoved. Support was no better in the north of England...and the promised reinforcements from France...well, they never materialized, did they? But Prince Charlie was determined to make a stand, so off we marched toward London. When we were within a stone’s throw, the city panicked. And no wonder, given the libels being printed about us in their Fleet Street rags.” He rolled his eyes. “Can you believe they claimed we devoured children and had claws instead of hands?”

Graham’s eyes
widened, but he held his tongue.

“Before we could mount an attack, the War Council crushed the Prince’s plans
...and we all trooped back to Scotland. On Christmas Day, we arrived in Glasgow, broken and knackered, having marched nearly three hundred miles. During the week we encamped there, we learned of the siege on Stirling Castle, so we set out to join in. But, by then, a government army had been dispatched to crush the insurgence. We met them at Falkirk on January the Seventeenth.” He paused for a breath and to pat his stump. “On that day, a fierce storm of wind and sleet was raging o’er the field. We met them with a volley at close range, which sent their cavalry scurrying like jackrabbits. As they fell back, we rushed down, breaking through the infantry line. The fight only lasted twenty minutes, but in that time, we killed close to six hundred Sassenach soldiers. My mount was downed in the first few minutes, but I went on hooting and hollering.” He paused, seemingly overcome. “’Twas a glorious day, to be sure, but the news of our victory only infuriated King George. So he dispatched his wretched whelp of a son to squash us like so many midges.”

He turned to his grandson then. “And by what name do we call the Duke to this day?”

“The Butcher.”

“Aye. For he turned out to be the worst kind of man: brutal, heartless, an
d ruthless. He soon figured out, if he could steady his men in the face of our charge, he’d have us at his mercy. At Drumossie, the Duke broke his forces into two lines and a reserve. That way, if the first line broke, the second would be ready to meet us with guns blazing. When the order came, the whole of our column right and center charged forward, whooping and screaming like a horde of demons. Except for the MacDonalds. We later heard the whole clan was in deep dudgeon over some perceived slight.” He shook his head in disgust as he added, “They were a proud lot. Too proud, if you ask me, for their own bloody good…or the good of the cause.”

He suddenly looked sad. “D
o you ken the expression ‘Pride goeth before the fall’?”

“Aye,
Granda.”

“And
do you ken its meaning?”

“It’s a warning no
t to be too full of yourself...and that if you get too big for your own breeks, God will knock you on your can.”

He laughed and mussed the lad’s hair.
“We Logans are not without our pride, mind. And for good reason. But we must always take care to keep our pride in check, to keep it safely stowed in our hearts, and never allow it to rule our heads. Do you ken what I mean by that, laddie?’

Graham replied with
a solemn nod.

“Well
, the MacDonalds let their pride go to their heads that day and God swiftly smote them down, taking the rest of us down with ’em. Our brave lads fell in writhing heaps, the forerunners skewered, slashed, and gutted by English bayonets.” He shook his head. “Poor devils! May God rest ’em. But they met their end as brave men should. Fighting for what they believed in, toe-to-toe with the enemy.” His Granda paused then, released a heavy sigh, and bit his lip, clearly overcome with emotion. After a moment, he began again in a strained voice. “We lost twelve hundred good strong lads that day.”

Young
Graham gulped at the number of dead. “Do you think you would have won if not for the MacDonalds?”

The old man heaved a sigh.
“No, lad. For the deck was stacked against us long before we took the field, it pains me to say. Starting with the card upon which the Butcher scribbled ‘no quarter’ at a gaming table the night before the battle.” He turned to his grandson. “Do you know what it means to give such an order?”

The answer weighed heavily on wee Graham’s heart
. “It means none can be taken prisoner, that all survivors must be kilt.”

“Aye
.” His grandfather shifted his gaze to the dying fire. “And the barbarity that followed is too gruesome for me to burden you with at your tender age. For now, let me just say there’s good reason the Nine of Diamonds will forever be known as the curse of Scotland.” He sat in silence for a moment before adding, “Now off to bed with you and be quick about it.”

Beside him
, she cleared her throat, calling him back to the battlefield. “You’ve gone quiet again.”

“Sorry
.” He pulled his cigarettes from his sporran, “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“My Granda.”

He lit
up and blew a cloud of smoke at the battlefield. It hung on the air like a ghost until the wind carried it away.

“Was he here?”

“Aye, but not on the field. And unlike most of the other survivors, he escaped before Cumberland’s men could catch him.” He shook his head and tore at his lip with his teeth before going on. “He lived in exile for twenty years. I didn’t meet him until I was eight years old, and lost him as many years later to yellow fever.”

She set a consoling hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“You see that over yon?” A wave of grief washed over him as he pointed toward the burial mounds edging the field. “That’s what’s known as the Well of the Dead. It’s where they buried the clansmen in mass graves. When they were finally allowed to be buried.” He paused to heave a sigh. “I can’t tell you how many days they laid upon the field, but I can tell you this: they laid there till the stench obliged that heartless son-of-a-bitch to order their interment.

“In the meantime, he sent his soldiers to bash in the skulls of any who still showed signs of life. Many died who would have fully recovered with aid
, but he did everything in his power to ensure no aid would be given. The injured were routed out and shot down while still on their knees, begging for their lives, along with any who’d given them shelter.” He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled with vehemence. “But it wasn’t just the rebels who were made to pay. Innocent men, women, and children were murdered along the roadways at random, their bodies stripped and posed indecently. Nursing mothers were shot in their beds, leaving their bairns to starve.”

Heaviness
enveloped over his heart. Swallowing, he cast his gaze across the moor as he searched his memory for a fitting bit of poetry. So many bards had lamented the slaughter that took place here, he found it impossible settle on just one. Throat tight, he dropped his cigarette in the dirt and smashed it under his shoe as his eyes swept across the sullen field.

“They say this place is haunted
, that on the anniversary of the battle, you can hear the echo of cannons, the clash of steel, and see the ghosts of the rebels charging over the moors. Another apparition haunts the place too. A tall lad with a drawn face who whispers the word
defeated
before vanishing into the mist. And listen”—he paused, allowing the deathly stillness to intrude—“do you hear that?”

She blinked at him
, brow furrowed. “I don’t hear anything.”

“
Exactly. Because birds no longer sing hereabouts out of respect for the dead.”