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But as the man grabbed his collar, the words ignited something in him, the recollection of memory–vague as it was, and for a moment, he believed he knew who he was and why he had come there. Murdoch McGill was a name he knew he had heard before, a man to be feared, a man with cruel intentions in his heart, a man whom he had been sent to seek out and…
“Murdoch,” he breathed, and Murdoch nodded.
“Aye, and ye, sir, are a spy–is that true?” he growled, “what is yer name?”
“I do not know my name, but I know yours,” he said, and Murdoch struck him across the face.
“Insolence, ye come here to destroy our cause, to destroy the hopes of the Jacobite rebellion. What are ye? The son of an English noble loyal to the house of Hanover? Ye deserve to be hanged for yer crimes,” he said.
But those words, that name, the look on the man’s face–all of it had served to rouse in him memories which had remained hidden beneath a veil of mist, memories which now swam up into view like figures coming over a hill. The Jacobite cause was known to him. He was part of it; he knew he was. The details were unclear, but he knew he was not an enemy to these people, even if the man standing before him was.
“Traitor!” he gasped, pointing at Murdoch, who seemed quite taken aback.
“Ye dare accuse me in such a way? Did ye hear that, men? This man accuses me of being a traitor. But here is the traitor, the Hanoverian spy, shipwrecked on the mull and standin’ here before us now. Tell us, spy, what did ye hope to dae?” he said.
The laird looked suspiciously at him, clearly taken aback by the sudden outburst and accusation. He stepped forward now, his brow furrowed.
“Why dae ye call Murdoch a traitor?” he demanded.
He thought for a moment, trying desperately to remember. The mist was settling again, the memories revealed only partially complete. But he knew the Jacobite cause was his and that it was his duty to protect it. He was an Englishman but no lover of the house of Hanover, and he was certain that the man–Murdoch–was a traitor, one whom he had been sent to expose.
“I… I do not know,” he faltered, and laughter rang out around the great hall.
“Well, ye seemed certain of yerself a moment ago,” the laird replied, but he shook his head, looking around him for any further sign which might serve to bring his memories to the fore.
His eyes rested on the beautiful woman sitting at the high table. He reasoned that she would be the laird’s daughter, or worse–or also–Murdoch’s wife. Her eyes were fixed on him intently, and it seemed as if she were willing him to remember.
“I am not your enemy. I know this cause is my own–the Jacobite cause,” he exclaimed, and again laughter rang out around the great hall, even as Murdoch shook his head and raised his hand to strike him again.
“Would ye mock us?” he demanded, but he shook his head, facing Murdoch defiantly.
“That is the last thing I would do. I know this cause is my own, and I know I have a mission to further it–if only you will help me remember. Laird, I beg you, help me, I can give you only my word, but there is…” he began, suddenly remembering the letter in his pocket, the letter he had so far kept hidden from his captors.
The key and the coin had been taken, and knowledge of them had yielded nothing in his favor. But the letter bore a crest, and perhaps it might serve as proof of what he was saying, proof that he was part of a cause which they, too, shared in. He took a deep breath and reached into his waistcoat, pulling the letter from its hiding place. The laird stared at him with wide eyes as Murdoch reached forward and snatched it from him.
“What is this?” he demanded, passing it to the laird who looked at it in astonishment.
“Why was this nae found on him before?” the laird demanded, turning to the jailer, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“Laird, I searched him myself, but he must have hidden it,” the jailer mumbled.
“And perhaps ye would like the company of the dungeon rats in punishment,” the laird replied, unfolding the letter to examine it.
With its crest and indecipherable words, the letter was meaningless to him. In the darkness of the dungeon, he had been unable to look at it, to examine it and reach any sort of conclusion as to what it meant. It brought no memories back to him; the lion and the eagle standing guard over the shield with its red and yellow embossed panels meant nothing to him. But to the laird, it seemed to mean a great deal.
“What is it ye see there, laird?” Murdoch asked, and the laird shook his head in astonishment.
“These are the arms of the MacGlens, a noble family of our cause– staunch supporters of the exiled king and favored at the French court,” the laird replied.
At these words, he felt a glimmer of hope, the laird’s expression changing, and he looked at him with narrow eyes as though weighing up the sincerity of his words.
“Where did ye get this letter from?” Murdoch demanded, turning to him angrily.
“I cannae remember,” he replied, entirely truthful, and Murdoch threw up his hands in exasperation.
“See–he cannae remember. Perhaps he stole it, perhaps he came here to kill the laird of the MacGlens, perhaps his intentions are solely treacherous,” he said, jabbing his finger in the air.
“Tis’ enough to stay my hand until we know more,” the laird replied, folding the letter, and placing it in his pocket.
