Chapter Seven
“Look at the shape of the ridge,” Christina said later, as Aedan pulled the gig to a halt at the foot of a long series of slopes. She pointed to the crest of a hill. “Over there. Do you see the sleeping king?”
“The what? Where?”
“Sleeping king. A Celtic legend tells of a great king trapped under a mountain, held there by magic,” she explained.
“If we could see through the crust of the earth, we would see him lying there, asleep. His head is to the left, see, and then the curve of his shoulder and torso. The lower slopes form his hip, knee, and leg. His feet are at the base of the hill.”
“Ah, now I see it. An interesting fairytale, that.” He chuckled low, and the sound made Christina smile secretly. “So he sleeps bespelled. And when he wakes?”
“Then all will be well in the land again, so they say. All problems resolved, the people happy and prosperous again.”
“Then by all means, we should wake the fellow without delay.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Dundrennan has a similar legend, but our sleeper is a princess.”
“When she wakes, will all be right in the land?”
“So they claim. But she will never wake. No one can break the spell over her.”
She slid him a curious glance. Just then, John drew up on the horse, waiting for them to either continue or climb out of the gig. Aedan jumped down to walk around, holding up his hands to assist Christina.
“Well, Mrs. Blackburn, since the crust of that hill is already broken, let us see what lies inside, shall we?”
She nodded and stood, and he took her by the waist to lift her down.
She liked the iron brace of his fingers at her waist. When she gripped his forearms for support as he lowered her, he lingered as he set her down, and she let her hands stay on his arms for a moment.
Then John dismounted, looped the reins to the gig, and came toward them.
“We can walk up the hill from here,” Aedan said. “It is too steep and rough—not yet finished—so we cannot take the gig much farther. Sir?” He looked at John.
“Lead on, sir,” her brother said.
“And you, madam? Content to walk from here?”
“I am.” Glad she had worn sturdy boots that day, she gathered her skirts and took the pathway ahead of the men. Following the zigzag course of turned and tamped earth, she soon saw the raw cut in the hillside.
“How high are these hills?” John asked, making his way up, planting his cane firmly as he swung his weaker leg along.
Reassured to see that he was doing well with the uneven slope, she reminded herself not to hover and play the older sister.
He was strong and determined, and she knew better than to offer help.
“Nearly a thousand feet at the summit,” Aedan said, walking just behind her. He paused, as she had, while John joined them. “We halted work beneath that rocky cliff, just there, about three hundred feet up.”
“Hopefully you can resume your roadwork shortly,” John said.
“That will depend on your sister, sir.”
Frowning, Christina hurried ahead, not sure what he meant—was his remark teasing or serious? If the ruins proved more important, just now, than the roadwork, would he blame her? She had not known him long enough to guess his reaction.
And yet part of her felt as if she had known him a very long time.
He would not blame her entirely, but would be disgruntled, hiding his true feelings.
She was sure of that. While she did not want to disappoint him—a realization that came suddenly—she could not allow her feelings to sway her academic opinion.
Though Neaves occasionally consulted her, she was a woman, and sometimes she was all too aware that her thoughts were simply tolerated by Neaves, who had his own reasons for listening to her.
Without his personal interest, she did not think he would give her any credence at all.
That awareness fueled her determination to prove her expertise was more than equal to Neaves. If she was not her uncle’s equal, well, she could accept that difference.
A little higher, with the men several long strides behind her, she reached a jagged pile of rocks that looked as if a giant had torn them apart and thrown them willy-nilly, glossy as chunks of hard black pudding. She stopped and stared.
Her uncle’s theories concerning Celtic Scotland were controversial and, in Christina’s opinion, brilliantly insightful.
Edgar Neaves was curious to see if the find at Dundrennan supported her uncle’s research, or left it flat.
If she could prove Carriston’s work, that would restore his tarnished reputation while he was still around to see it.
She felt a surge of hope—or was it wishful thinking?
Her work with Uncle Walter was fascinating and rewarding, yet disheartening lately.
With his final volume published two years ago, his dearly held ideas had endured academic ridicule.
His health had been sorely affected by the strain of that.
If this site revealed particularly important Pictish ties, as he had boldly predicted, his work and his health would benefit.
She climbed faster, lifting the hems of her gray skirt and layered petticoats; the warmest one of red flannel flashed fiery color with each step.
The path cut through heathered slopes and led toward the site of the blasting.
Turf had peeled back, exposing raw earth and sheer rock.
Despite her sturdy boot soles, Christina nearly stumbled on the stone-littered path.
“Careful,” Aedan MacBride said, suddenly just behind her.
He offered his hand to help her jump a mucky puddle, fingers firm on her gloved hand.
“The mud can be very bad here after a rain. We dug drainage ditches, but a fierce storm could start a mudslide. One more reason to finish this road quickly as we can.”
She saw then that John had stepped off the path to rest on a boulder. “John?”
He held up a small sketch book. “I’ll come up soon. I want to sketch some of this rugged, remarkable landscape and make some color notes on the light to paint it later.”
Christina nodded. John had lost some muscle from a gunshot wound and lacked full strength in the left leg. Though he rarely complained of it, she knew it caused him pain.
Aedan, listening, nodded. “The hill is quite steep and rough from here on, Mrs. Blackburn. Would you like to rest for a bit?”
“No,” she said decisively. The sunlight was strong and hot on her face. She pulled out a long hatpin to reposition the brim for a little more shade.
“You could command armies with a weapon like that,” Aedan drawled.
She sent him a little glare and turned to resume her steady ascent.
Breathing came a little dearer now, and she cursed the whalebone stays that further trimmed her torso.
But she was thankful for the shorter length of her walking skirt and for tough-soled brogans that allowed her to take sure strides.
Aedan went ahead and reached out a hand in assistance. He kept hold of her gloved hand to help her along the steep, winding track, his grip firm and pleasant. When he let go, she missed that comfort.
“Why does the road curve like this?” she asked, putting a hand to her side, pausing to draw in a few breaths.
“To allow for the steep grade of the hill. The road cannot go straight up and over. We cut it this way, so that it rises a little, then swings that way, rising again”—he gestured as he spoke—“gradually moving up and then down the hillside. That way the ride is not so steep in a carriage.”
“Going on foot, I feel as if I have climbed a veritable mountain,” she said, still breathless. “Why not cut the road around the base of the hill?” She looked down. The slope fell steeply away from the edge of the path, shored up by boulders.
“Do you see that wide burn on the moor below? It cuts close to the hill, so the lower slope can be very boggy. And the land on other side of the burn no longer belongs to my estate, and we could not obtain the owners’ permission. They prefer to keep it for hunting privileges.”
“You said the government could take precedence in the case of a parliamentary road.”
“The owner of the lease happens to be the queen,” he said. “They rent the land out for hunting. So we could not argue the rights of the road for our project.”
“I see. Oh, Tam took us this way in the carriage,” she said, looking around. “The view is stunning. Look—there’s an eagle!” She pointed.
They stood so high on the slope that the great bird glided beneath them, the sun bright on its outspread wings.
Below, the moorland spread out like a golden quilt, meeting the heathered hillsides, the sky above sweeping and clear.
Christina smiled, sighing with admiration at the beautiful landscape.
“Aye, it’s lovely and peaceful,” Aedan agreed, watching her. “I came here often as a lad. It is one of my favorite spots.”
“Then why take blasting powder to it?”
“Black powder, madam,” he corrected. “There was a great deal of rock, so we had little choice. And we thought there would be nothing of historic value here, for there was no sign of anything.”
“My uncle always believed something might be found on Cairn Drishan,” she said. “There are ancient ruins elsewhere in these Strathclyde hills.”
“My father shared that hope.”
“But you do not,” she said astutely.
“Not particularly. Can you continue, Mrs. Blackburn, or do you need to abandon your stays?” He lifted a brow.
Her cheeks grew hot. “That is none of your concern.”
He smiled in answer and offered his hand again. She took it and they moved upward, soon reaching a large cluster of rocks, which they clambered over. The wind fluttered Christina’s hat ribbons against her cheek and billowed her skirt.
“Careful, lass. My crew has not yet cleared all the rubble from the explosion. I must ask you never to come up here alone. It is not safe.” He pulled her upward.
She stepped up beside him and faced him. “I am not helpless, sir. I would do fine here by myself.”