Chapter Seven #2
He stopped to glare down at her. “Christina Blackburn,” he said sternly, “it is dangerous up here, and you will not come here alone. Either I will come with you, or one of my men will do so. Never alone. Is that understood?” He frowned, his brows straight and black over blue eyes of a brilliant clarity.
She considered arguing, then nodded. “I understand.”
His hand tightened on hers as he drew her over more rocks. “Come up. Good,” he said. “And here it is.”
She looked around, then stared.
Dark with age, irregular in shape, the stones upthrust like teeth in a monstrous jaw, savage, primeval, but with underlying structure.
They had not been shaped by nature or blasting powder, but by tools, and had been stacked in a deliberate pattern.
Many had fallen out of the set, resulting in a jumble.
She released Aedan’s hand and walked forward, heart pounding. The wall was in shambles, black with age, strangely glossy. Beyond its staggered line, she saw a gaping hole in the hillside, like a mouth opening to show fierce teeth and bones.
“Oh,” she said. She dropped to one knee, touched a few stones. “Oh, my.”
“I hope you are not disappointed, having come so far.”
Neither disappointment nor thrill described her reaction. Dismay was closer to the mark. Unable to make sense of the puzzle of stones at first, she did not know what to say. Aware that she was touted as an expert, she hid her uncertainty. She had expected a ruin, but not utter chaos.
After a moment she pulled a small notebook from her reticule and knelt on the cushion of her skirts to make quick notes and sketches. Then she rose to her feet. MacBride moved toward her, stepping over the toppled barrier.
“Be careful,” Aedan warned behind her.
Nodding, she made more sketches as she tried to puzzle out the relationship of turf and stone. How long had this been here, and what sort of structure was it? Were clues buried in the earth? Toeing the dirt, she turned over a few small stones.
Kneeling, she traced the tumbled-down wall with her hand. Something was odd here, but she could not decipher it as yet. She frowned. Some instinct told her to keep looking, that it needed time.
“No cache of gold, as you see,” Aedan said. “Little to recommend investigation.”
“I am not sure yet.” She hefted a small, dark stone thoughtfully in her hand. “This may indeed be quite old. My uncle’s research indicates that there was an ancient Celtic settlement in the area of Dundrennan. Caledonian people, or Picts.”
“There is a hill fort a few miles from here. He may be thinking of that.”
“Where there is a fort, there are homesteads in the vicinity. I am not ready to dismiss this pile of stones just yet.”
“Soon, I hope.”
She glanced up to see his frown. Wind lifted his hair, fluttered his shirt and cravat and stirred his jacket.
Muscular, handsome, he seemed wholly part of this place somehow, strong and bold, earth wrought and mysterious.
Even his black hair and blue eyes, his black clothing and gray vest, blended with the iron-gray stones embedded in the slope.
“Mrs. Blackburn, I hope you are not misled by a desire to discover something ancient here.”
“Sir?” She straightened, heart pounding, but reminded herself that he could not know her hopes for her uncle’s work.
“There is no treasure to be found here, no ancient tomb waiting to be discovered. My guess is that this is part of a collapsed black house, no more than a hundred years old, perhaps buried in a mudslide decades ago. Digging further might reveal furnishings, pottery, even a skeleton. I beg your pardon to mention so unpleasant a topic.”
“Not unpleasant—rather exciting, especially if the pottery and skeletal remains were centuries old! Such discoveries yield fascinating information about the past. If you wish to persuade me to abandon this task, or if you doubt a woman can be useful here, you are mistaken.”
“Madam, I could not care less if Neaves sent a man, a woman, or a bogle to examine this hill. This is likely a black house, given its location.”
“This is no black house,” she snapped. “I am already sure of that.”
“A shieling, then. A hut where crofters would camp out in summers when their cattle grazed on higher elevations. Just a lot of old, dirty stones to be moved out of the way.”
“I am no archaeologist—that is a fairly new science—but I will not dismiss this as unimportant. Not yet,” she repeated. “I must assess it carefully.”
“Be as careful as you like. Just be quick about it.”
She stood, brushing off her hands. “Why such a rush, sir?”
“The road must be completed by mid-October. You have a few days at most.”
“And you wish to be rid of me—for you have decided that my findings should be exactly what you want.”
He tilted his head, and she saw a spark of temper in his blue eyes, then a sigh of resignation that softened his expression. “Madam, you are welcome at Dundrennan for as long as you need. I ask only that you be efficient in your work, and I confess that I hope the stones prove insignificant.”
“I will not be rushed. And I will not be told what I think about this site.”
“I would not do that. I promise.” He stepped back. “I must go. Work awaits.”
“My work awaits as well. I will stay for a while, if you do not mind.”
“Very well.” He frowned again, a small tuck that he rarely lost. For an instant she was tempted to erase it with a finger. But it was there for deeper concerns than he admitted. She felt that was true, suddenly, and it puckered her own brow to realize it.
“I will be fine. Shall John and I wait for you to return in the gig?”
“Take the gig back when you please, and your brother can leave my horse here. My crew is working on the other side of this hill, and you can find me there if you need anything. Mrs. Gunn will likely expect you for luncheon, but I plan to stay here.”
“Before you go, there is one matter to discuss.” She knew he would not like it, and that frown would deepen between those dark-blue eyes. “Construction on this hill must cease for now. Any movement of earth and stone nearby could shift this area.”
“We have an area that must be finished now,” he said curtly. “We can suspend for a little after that. How long a ban would you impose, madam?”
“It is Sir Edgar’s request. He wants all roadwork within a mile halted until he can come here to make his determination. A few weeks, perhaps.”
He narrowed snapping blue eyes. “That is absurd.”
“A black powder charge could stir vibrations that would disturb this fragile find.”
“For the love of God,” he muttered. “That is slate and sandstone, not bone china!”
“As a civil engineer, you surely know the danger of tremors. Besides, the law of treasure trove dictates that the area remain protected until it can be studied.”
“Treasure has not yet been determined. If I lose Dundrennan because of these delays, or worse—” He stopped, turning half away as if to stifle temper and hold back something he would not share.
“Lose Dundrennan? What do you mean?”
“No matter.” MacBride shook his head. “Whatever you find, this road must go through. Good day, Mrs. Blackburn.”
He walked away, striding fast and nimble over the rough and rocky ground until he disappeared around the sloped curve in the hillside.
*
“Mr. MacBride may be right, Christina,” John said later. “This looks like a great useless pile of stones.” He sat on a boulder watching as she continued to poke and prod the earth using a stick. “Though you are not likely to concede that point.”
Christina sighed, feeling discouraged as she surveyed the confusion of rocks around her. The task was enormous, and MacBride’s discontent troubled her more than she would admit. “I understand his dilemma, but I have a job to do in all fairness.”
“True. And over and above treasure trove law, I suspect you hope to find something that supports Uncle Walter’s work.”
“I do, to be honest. There may be something to that here. This is the general area, and this could well be from an early century.” Bending, she picked up a piece of dark rock that had broken away from what seemed to be the ruin of a stone wall.
As she turned it in her hand, a thought flashed, eluding her.
“So you do not think this is a black house?”
She shook her head, examining the broken stone piece. “I do not agree with Sir Aedan. I just have a feeling there is something to this place—but I am not sure yet.”
John nodded and resumed his sketching while Christina walked a little further along the shoulder of the hill. A fast, cool wind whipped past, rippling her hat ribbons, fluttering her skirts. She surveyed the chaotic rubble at her feet and looked out over the rounded, bleak hills.
This place held something of importance. She felt it like the chill and push of the wind. A trace of evidence, an artifact, the smallest inscription or carving could mean the difference between the remnants of an ordinary stone wall and a significant old ruin.
Years ago, Reverend Walter Carriston had translated documents that hinted at a specific location close to Dundrennan with some connection to Arthur, the warrior-king who had become the stuff of legend, and who likely existed in the sixth century.
Her uncle’s discovery of some early Scottish references to Arthur had become the basis for his life’s work.
In books, articles, and lectures, he had strived to prove that Arthur the warrior-king had links to Celtic Scotland—and could even have come from Scotland himself.
His theories were not widely accepted, but he never doubted his conclusions. Christina respected his work and believed he had discovered something important. Now this old wall gave her hope.
Certainly it was very old. The glassy greenish-black surface of the stone in her hand was indeed ancient, and its gloss indicated that it had been subjected to tremendous heat and fire long ago.
What if King Arthur had been at Dundrennan?
And what if Dundrennan’s legendary princess had been a contemporary of the great king?
Evidence that supported her uncle’s conclusions as well as local legend would be astonishing.
It could add to the understanding of Arthurian history and even alter the interpretation of the Arthurian legends.
Those scholars that rejected Carriston’s theory felt his work threatened what they regarded as gospel truth—that the Arthurian tales had roots in the Welsh, English, and Cornish traditions.
Scholarship allowed that the historical Arthur, a sixth-century warrior briefly mentioned in early chronicles, may have crossed into Scotland to conquer it.
But her uncle theorized that Arthur came from a Scottish Celtic tribe, which was seen by English scholars as a scandalous, unacceptable suggestion with no basis in fact.
“If I could find proof of Uncle Walter’s theory,” Christina told John, “his work would be redeemed. The truth is here somewhere. I just have a feeling.”
“Your stubborn nature is a fine asset.” John got to his feet and came toward her. “But do not expect the impossible.”
“I must try. You know that.”
He sighed. “Well, if you are determined, so be it. But you’ll have to find proof before Sir Edgar arrives to take over.”
“True. I must ask Sir Aedan for a shovel.” She laughed bitterly. “Perhaps he will refuse and just tell me it is not important enough for one of his shovels. But it is important.” She studied the chunk of rock in her hand. “I’m sure of it.”
“I doubt he is that much like Mr. Dickens’s old Scrooge! But it will take more than one shovel from a miser.”
“Two, then, if you can help.”
“I will try. But Sir Aedan has a number of men on his work crew, and the work may need to stop. I wonder if he would spare workmen as well as a few shovels.”
“John Blackburn, you are a genius! I will ask. Will you come or wait here?”
“I’ll wait, and guard your precious site while I make more sketches.”
“Could you make some sketches of those stones?” She pointed. “We need an artist to record what we find.” As she spoke, she felt a shudder in the earth beneath her feet. Small stones rolled past her feet. “What was that?”
John looked around. “It felt like an explosion.”
“That wretch!” She set the fluttering brim of her hat as she walked off.
“Where are you going?”
“To fetch the gig and ride around the base of the hill to find Mr. Scrooge. He needs to stop blasting—and loan his men and shovels to me!” Hitching up her skirts, she hurried along the incline.