“Aye, that he was. Folk claimed the sinking was an act of God to avenge his religious misdeeds, but he decided that witches were responsible and rounded up people to punish. It was injustice of this sort that led to our siding with the Roundheads in the Civil War, wrong though we were to do so.”
Trick’s fingers traced lazy circles on Kendra’s shoulder, and her free hand curled into a fist in her lap. The one onhislap felt hot against the wool. Keeping her face passive, she nodded at Hamish. “Were the chests ever recovered?”
“Nay, lass, for the Forth is cold and deep. They lie there to this day.”
He briefly closed his eyes. Eyes that looked familiar, Kendra thought and wondered why.
“But the treasure,” he said when he opened them, “is not in those chests.”
Trick’s hand stilled on her shoulder. “Pardon?”
“You must understand, the people were angry well before the witch hunt. After the banquet, your mother stole from her chamber and met me in the storeroom along with Rhona and Gregor—the four of us were best of friends, even then. The Yeoman of the Buttery had been charged with packing the kitchen, which included the Royal plate. John Ferries was his name. Shorthanded, he was, and willing to accept whatever help he could find. So we helped.”
He fell silent.
Trick reached for his goblet. Niall put a hand over his father’s atop the coverlet. “Tell them how you helped, Da.”
Hamish sighed. “First we helped get John Ferries drunk. Then we helped fill the chests, but not with gold and silver plate…” He drew a long breath, a dramatic pause. “With rocks.”
Trick choked on a sip of his spirits. “Rocks?” he repeated incredulously.
“Aye.” Shifting on the bed, Hamish looked less than proud of what he’d done. “The treasure we spirited away. Poor John Ferries’ body washed up on shore shortly thereafter, so the secret remained between the four of us. The Royal plate remains hidden to this day.”
“Where?” Kendra breathed.
“If you’re willing, I’ll send Niall to show you. First thing tomorrow.”
Trick failed to see the point. Intriguing as the story might be, he was planning to leave for home tomorrow. He needed to complete the king’s mission. And make a fresh start with Kendra.
He gave her hand in his lap an experimental squeeze, smiling to himself when the pulse at her wrist sped up. “It’s an interesting tale, but what does this have to do with my mother’s summons?”
“She hoped—we hoped—that you’d return the treasure to its rightful owner. King Charles II.”
Disappointment scraped a raw place inside him. His mother hadn’t been wishing for a reconciliation. Like his father, she’d wanted only to use him for her own ends.
“They never sold even one piece,” Niall put in, a transparent attempt to make light of his parents’ wrongdoing. “It’s all been locked away in twenty-three chests for thirty-five years.”
Hamish nodded. “You must believe me, we didn’t take it to enrich ourselves. It was a prank, an act of revenge. We were young enough—angry enough—to risk such folly. And although we were fortunate in that our rocks sank and were never discovered, the misdeed has preyed on our minds ever since.”
It would, Trick supposed. But the fate of his mother’s soul was in God’s hands now, and he wasn’t responsible for unburdening Hamish Munroe’s conscience.
Without Hamish, perhaps Elspeth would have come to love her husband, or at least learned to live with him, and Trick would have had a family. He owed this old man nothing.
Hamish took a long, bracing sip from Niall’s cup. “Charles was beheaded—he paid for his actions. His son is a better man, a better king. We don’t want the treasure—we never did. But your mother feared that if we returned it, we’d face arrest. So she was hoping you’d do it for us. You have the king’s ear, and he trusts you—”
“How would you know that?”
“Do you think your mother wouldn’t keep watch on you the best she could? We—she hired people to report to her. If ever you’d really needed her, Patrick, she’d have been there.”
Hehadreally needed her. The times he’d been left alone in a school in France, and the other times, the endless years he’d worked as little more than a slave for his father’s unlawful business.
But the past was done. He’d long ago accepted the hand he’d been dealt, and more pressing matters required his attention.
King Charles deserved the Royal treasure, and God knew he needed it. The poor man was reduced to selling titles to make expenses. Even now, his ambassadors roamed the country with blank forms for anyone wanting and willing to pay for a baronetcy. Regardless of whether this ill old man deserved Trick’s loyalty, his monarch did.
Charles. His life these days seemed to be reduced to serving Charles.
“I’ll do it,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Show me the chests tomorrow, and I’ll find a way to get them home.”
