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CHAPTERFIVE
The purple heathers stretched out to the cliffs, which tumbled down into the sea below. Murdina and Cillian were standing on top of a rocky outcrop, where an ancient stone circle stood as a reminder of the bond between man and the landscape of this ancient place. They had paused a moment to catch their breath, the steep climb up from the valley path below revealing a view stretching back towards the castle and the sea beyond.
“There is the wreck, down below,” Cillian said, pointing into the distance.
The sands of the beach were just visible from their vantage point, and Murdina could see the mast of a ship grounded on the rocks. It must have been a proud merchant ship on its voyage, but now nature had overwhelmed it, and the bow was broken in two, its top protruding over the brow of the rocks.
“What brought it here, dae ye think?” Murdina asked, and Cillian shrugged.
“The waves and the currents. They must have been sailin’ north but to where? Tis’ strange to think of such a ship as that in such a lonely place as this. There is nay port or harbor for a hundred miles and nay settlements of any note. Were there any other survivors?” he asked.
Murdina had not thought to ask her father such a question, and she glanced fearfully around her, her hand going instinctively to her sword hilt lest an ambush appear from thin air.
“We would have found them–the patrols, I mean,” she said, but Cillian shook his head.
“How dae ye know that? There may be a whole army hidin’ out here,” he said, but Murdina rolled her eyes.
“Hidin’ in the heather? It seems unlikely. Come on, we shall go and see for ourselves,” she replied.
Despite her words, Murdina could not help but feel a little nervous. Cillian was right–they knew nothing of any survivors and had only the word of their prisoner as proof of the wrecked ship and its story. The path wound down from the stone circle and into a narrow valley, almost a gully, where high, heather-clad slopes rose up on each side, and gnarled, weather-beaten trees clung as unlikely angles to the rocks. It emerged onto a path that ran parallel to the coast and had long been used by the clan on their journeys to and from the beach.
“What if he is tellin’ the truth, and really he is a friend?” Cillian asked as they came in sight of the wrecked ship.
“Then my father will have blood on his hands if he truly means to kill him,” Murdina replied.
They could see the wreckage clearly now, and as they emerged onto the sands, Murdina gasped in amazement. She had never seen such a large and magnificent vessel–albeit now dashed into many pieces. It was a merchant ship, richly decorated, its sails of red and blue, though now hanging in tatters from the broken mast. The beach was strewn with boxes, barrels, trunks, and even a cannon, gradually being consumed into the sand, the weather having already taken its toll on the once-mighty vessel.
“An English merchant ship–for an English spy,” Cillian said as they walked across the beach to examine the wreckage more carefully.
“Or a spy for the cause,” Murdina replied.
Many Englishmen remained loyal to the Jacobite king and would gladly have seen the Stuart line restored. Likewise, those Scots, particularly those closest to the Kirk, believed the Hanoverians to be their rightful rulers.
“We trust only those we know, and we daenae speculate as to loyalties,” her father had always said, even if he was proving himself wrong now.
“Look at this,” Cillian said, pointing to an open chest, its contents spilling out across the sand.
There were bottles of brandy, some smashed, but others in perfect condition, and Murdina bent down and picked one up to examine it.
“French? But this is an English merchant ship,” she said, and Cillian nodded.
“Aye, tis’ strange. Why would an English vessel be carryin’ foreign goods?” he said, shaking his head.
They examined other boxes and barrels, finding fine silks, wine, sugar, and tobacco. It was a remarkable haul, even if most of it had been damaged in the wreck.
“There is a fortune here,” Murdina said, gazing around her at the debris littered across the sand.
“And only one man who holds the key to it all,” Cillian replied.
“Literally so–dae ye nae remember he had a key when he was captured, an ornate one on a silver chain,” Murdina replied.
Her father had taken the key but was no closer to discovering what lock it fitted. Murdina looked around her, wondering if one of the boxes matched the key in her father’s possession. Some remained unopened, while others had been split apart by the force of the waves dashing them against the rocks.
“Well, we cannae carry any of them back,” Cillian said, stooping down to try and open one of the locked boxes and failing.
“There must be some clue here, some answer to who this man is,” Murdina said, shaking her head.
“What did ye expect to find? A logbook detailin’ his every movement. He may have simply been a passenger onboard and the unfortunate–or fortunate–lone survivor. I see nay bodies here, nay sign of anyone save our prisoner. Tis’ all very strange,” Cillian said, shaking his head.
