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Authors: The Captive
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was abducted on her way to Fort William. Less than twenty-four hours after she left Afton House and her wedding r eception."
His hand tightened over her entwined ones. "Do you know who did it?"
She shook her head, and wisps of her bound hair, silver-streaked, tumbled from the hood of her cloak. "No. I mean, aye. Some Highland rebel. Simon Murdock was here the day before yesterday. He doesn’t know the full details yet, but says she is apparently being held hostage. He means to go after her."
He turned his face out to the Firth of Clyde. Its salty spray invigorated him. "The odds of defeating the Scottish rebels are on M urdock’s side."
"Aye, but how long will that take, Arch? And, in the meantime, what will have happened to Enya?"
Seeing Kathryn’s shudder, he didn’t have to imagine what was on her mind. The same was on his. What kind and how much torture might Enya have to endure? Murdock cared not a whit. Other than to salvage his pride, his main objective was to defeat the remaining Highlanders still in rebellion against British dominion a full five years after the Scottish defeat at the Battle of Culloden.
He squeezed Kathryn's hands with a reassurance he did not quite feel. He sometimes felt her unswerving faith in him was misplaced. "I have contacts. I’ll return the day after tomorrow with the full story. When we know all there is to know, then we can plan accordingly."
The relief in her fair face was worth all those lonely nights of his adult life. Now the burden had shifted to him; so, after leaving Kathryn at the banks of the sluggish burn, he prepared for another journey. His destination was the trackless wilds of Midlothian and Rosslyn Chapel, the underground headquarters of the Knights Templar.
A contingent of Knights Templars had allegedly fought on Robert Bruce's side at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, in which Bruce defeated the English. Because the papal bu ll dissolving the Templars was never proclaimed in Scotland, the order of warrior-monks was never officially suppressed here.
The order began a clandestine existence, gradually secularizing itself and becoming associated with both the Scottish Rite Freemas ons and the prevailing clan system. Indirectly, it had worked to support the cause of Bonnie Prince Charlie in '45.
After a hard ride that took all night and part of the next morning, Arch arrived exhausted at Rosslyn Chapel. Visitors to the site were not uncommon. The chapel was famous for the quality and variety of stone carving inside. Also inside was a secret passage known only to a select few.
In the guise of a wine merchant, Arch entered the chapel, dimly lit by wall sconces and sputtering candles at the altar. A few pilgrims either sat on the scarred benches or tiptoed around the circumference of the walls to better view the carvings. For a moment he idled, enjoying the coolness the interior afforded a tired and perspiring traveler.
A little-used stai rcase off one alcove descended to a wine cellar below. Unobtrusively, he went down its narrow, dank steps. Someone moved in the room, damp and chill, with mold growing on its walls.
Wary, he paused. A wayfarer, an artist by his pad and charcoal, wandered a mong the wine cellar’s empty casks. Arch peered at the pad and ascertained that the young man had, indeed, been sketching. The drawing was of the cellar’s high, vaulted stone roof.
Arch strolled forward. "G ’day. Spooky place, isn’t it?”
The young man nodde d. "That it is.”
"Anything left for our refreshment?”
"Not a drop,” the artist said. "The English swigged it all.” Soon thereafter, he took his leave.
Arch had to smile. The artist ’s eye was not that observant or he would have noted that the cellar’s cobwebs did not adorn all the oak casks. At the back of the catacomb-like cellar, one large vat in particular showed no trace of dust.
By simply pulling on what appeared to be a spigot, he swung open the vat ’s end to reveal a tunnel, lit by a
His hand tightened over her entwined ones. "Do you know who did it?"
She shook her head, and wisps of her bound hair, silver-streaked, tumbled from the hood of her cloak. "No. I mean, aye. Some Highland rebel. Simon Murdock was here the day before yesterday. He doesn’t know the full details yet, but says she is apparently being held hostage. He means to go after her."
He turned his face out to the Firth of Clyde. Its salty spray invigorated him. "The odds of defeating the Scottish rebels are on M urdock’s side."
"Aye, but how long will that take, Arch? And, in the meantime, what will have happened to Enya?"
Seeing Kathryn’s shudder, he didn’t have to imagine what was on her mind. The same was on his. What kind and how much torture might Enya have to endure? Murdock cared not a whit. Other than to salvage his pride, his main objective was to defeat the remaining Highlanders still in rebellion against British dominion a full five years after the Scottish defeat at the Battle of Culloden.
He squeezed Kathryn's hands with a reassurance he did not quite feel. He sometimes felt her unswerving faith in him was misplaced. "I have contacts. I’ll return the day after tomorrow with the full story. When we know all there is to know, then we can plan accordingly."
The relief in her fair face was worth all those lonely nights of his adult life. Now the burden had shifted to him; so, after leaving Kathryn at the banks of the sluggish burn, he prepared for another journey. His destination was the trackless wilds of Midlothian and Rosslyn Chapel, the underground headquarters of the Knights Templar.
A contingent of Knights Templars had allegedly fought on Robert Bruce's side at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, in which Bruce defeated the English. Because the papal bu ll dissolving the Templars was never proclaimed in Scotland, the order of warrior-monks was never officially suppressed here.
The order began a clandestine existence, gradually secularizing itself and becoming associated with both the Scottish Rite Freemas ons and the prevailing clan system. Indirectly, it had worked to support the cause of Bonnie Prince Charlie in '45.
After a hard ride that took all night and part of the next morning, Arch arrived exhausted at Rosslyn Chapel. Visitors to the site were not uncommon. The chapel was famous for the quality and variety of stone carving inside. Also inside was a secret passage known only to a select few.
In the guise of a wine merchant, Arch entered the chapel, dimly lit by wall sconces and sputtering candles at the altar. A few pilgrims either sat on the scarred benches or tiptoed around the circumference of the walls to better view the carvings. For a moment he idled, enjoying the coolness the interior afforded a tired and perspiring traveler.
A little-used stai rcase off one alcove descended to a wine cellar below. Unobtrusively, he went down its narrow, dank steps. Someone moved in the room, damp and chill, with mold growing on its walls.
Wary, he paused. A wayfarer, an artist by his pad and charcoal, wandered a mong the wine cellar’s empty casks. Arch peered at the pad and ascertained that the young man had, indeed, been sketching. The drawing was of the cellar’s high, vaulted stone roof.
Arch strolled forward. "G ’day. Spooky place, isn’t it?”
The young man nodde d. "That it is.”
"Anything left for our refreshment?”
"Not a drop,” the artist said. "The English swigged it all.” Soon thereafter, he took his leave.
Arch had to smile. The artist ’s eye was not that observant or he would have noted that the cellar’s cobwebs did not adorn all the oak casks. At the back of the catacomb-like cellar, one large vat in particular showed no trace of dust.
By simply pulling on what appeared to be a spigot, he swung open the vat ’s end to reveal a tunnel, lit by a
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