Chapter 20 - The Midnight Treason
Midnight brought no peace to Ravenscroft Castle.
A howling gale had risen from the northeast, driving mountainous grey swells against the base of the promontory. Inside the great hall, the shadows danced wildly upon the tapestries as the wind screamed down the chimneys.
Clara slept fitfully in the upper solar, guarded by four veterans with loaded muskets outside her heavy oak door. Abigail had sat beside the child until her breathing evened out, softly stroking her mahogany curls and whispering the promise that no harm would ever touch her again.
Downstairs in the castle's stone-vaulted guardroom, Alister sat over an admiralty map of the Aberdeenshire coast, flanked by Sir Anthony Blake and Murdoch. The grief that had broken through his composure hours earlier had calcified into a terrifying, lethal purpose.
"Corvinus the apothecary," Alister said, his finger jabbing at the map. "Beatrice said he is being held by Chiverton’s men near Aberdeen. But Chiverton’s private fleet operates out of the fishing port of Peterhead, ten miles north of here."
"If Chiverton knows Beatrice rode here," Sir Anthony said, leaning over the table, "he will not wait to be implicated. The moment Corvinus is placed on a witness stand before the King’s Bench, Chiverton’s own head is on the line for high treason and murder of a peeress. He will either smuggle the apothecary to Norway tonight, or put a bullet in the man's skull and dump him in the sea."
"Then we strike first," Alister said coldly. "Higgins, prepare twelve horses. We ride for Peterhead within the hour. We seize Corvinus before Chiverton’s brig can catch the midnight tide."
"Alister, wait," Abigail’s voice called out from the arched doorway.
She walked into the circle of lamplight, dressed in a dark riding habit, her eyes wide with a sudden, dreadful realization.
"What is it, Abigail?" Alister asked, rising immediately.
"Think about Beatrice," Abigail said, her mind piecing together the terrifying puzzle with frantic speed. "Beatrice is vain, proud, and selfish above all things. Would a woman who escaped London under Chiverton’s protection ride alone to Ravenscroft just to taunt you with a paper?"
Alister went still. His eyes narrowed. "She wanted to wound me."
"No," Abigail insisted, her heart hammering against her ribs. "She wanted to distract you! She wanted you to focus every man, every thought, on her and the ghost of Eleanor! She *knew* you would leave this castle to hunt down the apothecary!"
Sir Anthony gasped. "A diversion."
"If you ride to Peterhead with twelve of your veterans," Abigail cried, "how many men remain behind to hold Ravenscroft?"
"Only eight," Murdoch said, his old face draining of color. "And four of them are watching the outer causeway."
At that exact second, a muffled, hollow *thump* reverberated from deep within the castle foundations.
It was not the thunder of the sea. It was the distinct sound of iron scraping over stone from the subterranean vaults.
"The sea caves!" Murdoch cried, his voice trembling in horror. "Below the water gate! In the old days of the Covenanting wars, there was a smugglers' tunnel cut through the rock, leading from the caverns below directly into the cellars beneath the solar!"
Before another word could be spoken, the terrifying, high-pitched scream of a child pierced through the stone ceilings of the castle.
"CLARA!" Alister roared.
He drew his cavalry sabre, the steel hissing as it cleared the scabbard, and bounded up the spiral stone stairs three steps at a time, Abigail and Sir Anthony right behind him.
They reached the second-floor gallery just as the two guards outside Clara’s chamber collapsed onto the floorboards, their throats slashed from behind by dark figures in black oilskin sea-cloaks.
The heavy door to the solar hung wide open.
Inside, Clara was kicking and screaming in terror, a thick wool gag wrapped around her small mouth. Holding her with an iron grip was Captain Donald Vance—his face bandaged, his arm strapped in a sling from the carriage crash on the Lammermuirs, his eyes blazing with the venom of a cornered beast.
Beside him stood three heavily armed river-rats, their pistols cocked.
And behind them, climbing out of a hidden stone trapdoor in the corner of the room, was Lady Beatrice Hadlington, her gown filthy from the sewer tunnels, holding a lit keg of black gunpowder in her hands, its sulfur match sputtering with a hissing white spark.
"Stay back, Alister!" Beatrice shrieked, her voice echoing off the rafters in mad, hysterical triumph. "One step, and I drop the match into the powder! We all go to hell together—or you let Vance take your precious brat down to the waiting boat!"
Clara’s muffled sobs tore through Abigail’s soul. The child’s eyes, wide with absolute terror, locked onto Abigail, crying out for the mother she had only just found.
Alister halted on the threshold, his sabre raised, his body shaking with a fury so monumental that the very stones seemed to tremble beneath his boots.
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"Touch that match, Beatrice," Alister whispered, his voice like the crack of doomed thunder, "and God Himself will not be able to save what remains of your soul."
The fuse burned closer to the iron keg, illuminating Clara's terrified face in a cruel, sputtering red glare.