Chapter 13 - Ambush on the Lammermuirs
The dawn broke over the North Sea in bruised shades of purple and slate gray. Rain lashed the cobblestones of Berwick as two separate parties departed the courtyard of the Black Bull Inn under the cover of the morning gloom.
The first coach—a heavy, four-horse traveling carriage with closed leather blinds—rumbled inland toward the winding tracks of the Lammermuir Hills, escorted by four outriders dressed in the distinctive green cloaks of Ashbourne outriders.
Thirty minutes later, an unassuming, rugged mail carriage with reinforced iron axles slipped quietly through the northern water gate, taking the precarious coastal track that hugged the sheer red sandstone cliffs above the surging sea. Inside sat Alister, Abigail, and Clara, with Higgins and six trusted former troopers riding close behind, their musketoons held dry beneath heavy wool coverings.
Twelve miles inland, high among the wind-swept gorse and craggy ridges of the Lammermuir pass, Captain Donald Vance and twenty heavily armed mercenaries crouched behind a natural wall of granite boulders. The rain had turned the narrow cart road below into a trench of slick, black peat.
"Coach approaching from the south!" a scout hissed, crawling through the wet heather. "Four horses, four outriders. The Duke's colors."
Vance bared his teeth, cocking his flintlock blunderbuss. "Remember MacIntyre's orders. Shoot the horses first to block the ravine. Kill the outriders. Bring the woman and the child out alive if you can—MacIntyre needs her signature on the deed before she goes into the marsh. But if the Duke draws a blade, cut him down where he stands."
The heavy carriage trundled into the gorge, the horses laboring through the mud. The sheer rock walls on either side trapped the sound of creaking leather and iron-shod wheels, echoing through the desolate pass.
"Now!" Vance roared.
A volley of gunfire erupted from the rocks above, the crack of black powder echoing like thunder through the ravine. Two of the lead coach horses screamed and collapsed into the mud, overturning the front carriage tongue and bringing the heavy vehicle to a shuddering halt.
Vance and his men surged down the scree, brandishing cutlasses, clubs, and muskets, howling like wolves scenting prey. "Surround the doors! Break the glass!"
Vance kicked open the carriage door, shoving his smoking pistol inside. "Out, Your Grace! Step out or we burn the—"
He stopped dead.
The interior of the coach was completely empty, save for two iron counterweights and four hardened veterans of the 6th Dragoons, fully armed with loaded carbines pointed directly at his chest.
"Surprise, Captain," the lead dragoon smiled cold-bloodedly, and fired.
From the rocks above and from the mouth of the pass, a trumpet blast echoed through the rain. A troop of twenty mounted dragoons, led by Colonel Maitland himself, swept down upon the trapped mercenaries from the rear, their drawn sabres flashing silver against the gray sky.
"Treason against the Crown!" Maitland bellowed, urging his stallion forward. "Drop your weapons or be run through!"
Panic shattered the mercenary ranks. Vance, clutching a bleeding shoulder where the dragoon’s ball had grazed him, scrambled desperately back up the slippery shale. "It's a trap! The Duke isn't here! Break for the coast!"
The skirmish in the hills was swift, brutal, and decisive. Within fifteen minutes, fifteen of Vance’s men lay disarmed or dead in the mud, while the surviving five were bound with carriage harness. Vance, however, managed to slip through a sheep ravine, his eyes wild with hatred as he stole an unattended horse tethered behind the ridge, spurring the beast mercilessly toward the coastal road.
Meanwhile, along the cliffside path, Alister’s coach navigated the narrow track with steady caution. Below them, waves crashed against jagged sea stacks with an explosive roar, throwing white spray fifty feet into the air.
Inside the carriage, Clara sat securely between Abigail and Alister, holding Abigail’s hand tightly. She was frightened by the storm, but Abigail spoke softly to her, singing an old Scottish lullaby her mother had once sung to her:
*"Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,*
*The wild wind will not fret ye...*
*For love is near to hold ye dear,*
*And morning brings the sun."*
Clara’s trembling ceased, her wide eyes gazing up at Abigail’s serene face. "You sing like an angel, Miss Abigail."
"She is an angel, Clara," Alister said softly, his arm wrapped around both of them, his heavy travelling cloak sheltering them from the draft that seeped around the coach door.
Suddenly, a gunshot cracked from the ridge above the track.
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A bullet struck the carriage frame inches above Alister's head, splintering the oak paneling.
"Ambush!" Higgins shouted from outside. "Rider on the high rocks!"